Epic (Him Book 3) by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

Author:Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy [Bowen, Sarina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tuxbury Publishing LLC
Published: 2020-02-08T18:30:00+00:00

I’m wearing the opponent’s jersey. Fuck. Wes is going to kill me.

These are my thoughts as a trainer hustles me down the chute, past the security, and onto the home bench.

None of the San Jose players really glance my way as I sit on the end in the backup goalie’s traditional spot. The league requires that teams dress two goalies for a game, but the chances of me actually playing are slim to none.

The arena is alive with excitement as the two teams get into position. Wes is on the first line, taking the faceoff. I’m dying to stand up and wave at him like a total idiot. Or anyone on Toronto, for that matter. This is like winning the lottery and not being able to share a single dime with the people you love. I want them to get as big of a kick out of this development as I’m getting.

But my husband and his teammates are laser-focused on the game, as they should be. Almost immediately after the faceoff, Pitti is under attack. Toronto takes advantage of the absence of San Jose’s starting goalie.

Pitti is good, though. For eleven minutes, he stops every shot that careens toward him, at one point making a diving save that sends my heart lurching to my throat. I’m not even playing and yet the adrenaline in my blood is high. And the churning of my stomach is even worse now. Nerves and a hundred servings of Mexican food don’t go well together.

But Pitti’s luck runs out when Matt Eriksson unleashes a slapshot that flies into the net, top right corner. Toronto is leading us 1-0—and how cute is it that I’m now referring to it as “us.” I’m not actually a San Jose player. I’m a benchwarmer who’s not going to see a second of ice time because Pitti is killing it.

My job is to sit here, occasionally opening the bench door to accommodate a quick line change. There are backup goalies who spend ninety percent of their time sitting here, opening and shutting this door. And people wonder why I skipped the minors to become a coach.

It’s hella fun for one night, though. And I’ve never had better seats for one of Wes’s games.

When the first period comes to an end, I once again try to catch the attention of anyone from Toronto, but those bastards are all arrogantly skating off toward the tunnel without a backward look. With a lead of 3-1, they have a right to feel cocky.

I trudge back into the locker room with the San Jose game for the intermission. My clothes are still there, on the bench. Just to be an asshole, I dig out my phone, remove my borrowed helmet and snap a selfie in the teal jersey. I text it to Wes. He won’t see it until after the game, but this is a moment that needs to be memorialized.

“Hey, pretty boy,” a player taunts. “Maybe save the photo shoots for after the game?”

“Cut him some slack, bro,” someone argues.

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