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1
Cash
Beau picked Davis’ pocket and stole the puck away from him. I turned immediately and headed down to the other end.
Two defensemen swarmed his ass, so he passed the puck across the ice to me.
I received it and one second later shot the puck straight to the net.
Except it wasn’t anywhere near the net when I looked.
Nope.
I fanned the fuckin’ thing.
“Jesus Christ,” I swore under my breath, embarrassed at leaving the puck behind for Evans to swipe.
I swung around the net and Isaac said, “Wow, you really fucked that one up.” He shook his head and shot me a look.
Even so, he was right.
Evans made it all the way down to the other end. Took a slapshot—and the puck sailed in.
“Fuck.” I sighed and rolled my eyes. And that hurt. They felt as dry and cracked as my mouth at the moment.
After I’d left Jillian’s last night, I might have gone back to my place and finished off my bottle.
Not like I had anything else to do.
Nope.
Jillian had confirmed that she was indeed marrying that fuckin’ douche canoe.
And when I’d actually heard the words come out of her mouth—it was just like being on the set of Single Girl all over again. On the very last day, that is.
The day that she gave that goddamn rose to that goddamn douche canoe.
Instead of me.
She did that to me once.
And then I’d bent over and let her do the same fuckin’ thing to me for the second time.
I still couldn’t believe it.
I’d felt our connection.
We had this instant bond that seemed to link us together, no matter where we were.
What we had was indescribable. Whether we were at the country bar—or on the ice.
Or if I had her pushed up against the wall—making her scream out my name.
Had I dreamed all of that shit?
Was I fucking delusional?
Before I could ask myself one more pathetic question, Beau stopped right in front of me—with a spray of snow—enough to hit my face, too.
