Icing the Puck (New York Empires Book 2) by Isabo Kelly, Stacey Agdern, Kenzie MacLir
Tags: New York Empires Book 2
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enough mastery over the pyrokenesis to have a relationship, you’ll have to have the hard talk with Brody.”
Ann swallowed and stared at the rug covering her hardwood floor. It was a chance. Slim but real. If she didn’t take it, she’d definitely lose Brody, and she’d always wonder if she’d sacrificed what could have been the best thing in her life because she was afraid to try.
She’d never even hoped for what she had with Brody before coming to New York. Now, could she really let the chance at happiness go without a fight?
He would fight.
So would she.
She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll go pack a bag now. You’re sure your father won’t mind a house guest?”
“He’ll be delighted. I’ll call him while you’re packing.” As Ann headed back down the narrow hall to the bedroom, Nathalie shouted after her, “You’d better text Brody, too. He won’t give you the space you need to train otherwise.”
Ann took her time composing the text, wanting to ensure Brody would give her space but not worry too much. She hit send then pulled out a small suitcase. And as she packed, she allowed hope to settle into her heart.
She could do this. For him. For herself. She would do this.
Chapter Fourteen
Brody hated that he couldn’t go see Ann, hated that she still wasn’t taking his calls, though she did send him a few texts. He hated more that he didn’t fully understand what was happening.
He flopped onto his huge couch and flicked restlessly through TV channels, gave up, dropped the remote on the coffee table, and resumed pacing his apartment—the same thing he’d been doing for two fucking weeks when he wasn’t at the gym or out for a long run. He’d started and stopped at least twelve different books, unable to focus on his favorite, non-hockey pastime. He’d probably run the equivalent of five marathons. And he’d trained harder than he’d ever trained in his life. It hadn’t done a thing to ease his frustration. Even grueling workouts at his boxing gym hadn’t helped.
Both Ann and Nathalie assured him Ann just had a bad flu—contagious according to a doctor, Nathalie said. Too contagious for him to see Ann. But after two weeks, he was beyond worried. If she was still sick and contagious after this long, could it be just a flu? What if she was sick with something worse and they weren’t tell him?
What if she wasn’t sick at all?
He didn’t even have his job to keep him distracted, damn it. He hadn’t minded getting suspended so much because he’d assumed he’d be spending the extra time with Ann. Instead, when he wasn’t working out like a madman, training to stay in shape but without the actual games to shed his restlessness, he paced his apartment, fretting like an old woman, irritable because he felt so damned helpless.
At least he was starting back to work tomorrow. He’d gotten the call just that morning that he was confirmed for the Empires’ next game.
There’d been a media thing going on since St. Laurent’s concussion and Brody’s suspension, led by a reporter out of Montreal. A huge blowup, questioning why the player Brody had beat up hadn’t gotten a suspension but Brody had. There’d been a lot of debate in the sports media, and all of it could have caused the Empires problems if not handled right.
He’d been ordered not to respond to the controversy, so he had politely refused to answer any questions reporters threw out him. He didn’t actually have much to say about it anyway. He’d been too concerned about Ann to do more than notice the debate peripherally. At the moment, how the NHL handled penalties and suspensions was the least of his worries.
He paced into his kitchen, contemplated his empty fridge, and considered ordering takeout even though his appetite wasn’t great. He needed to eat if he was getting back on the ice. Ignoring the phone and pile of takeaway menus next to it, he wandered back out to his living room.
He
Ann swallowed and stared at the rug covering her hardwood floor. It was a chance. Slim but real. If she didn’t take it, she’d definitely lose Brody, and she’d always wonder if she’d sacrificed what could have been the best thing in her life because she was afraid to try.
She’d never even hoped for what she had with Brody before coming to New York. Now, could she really let the chance at happiness go without a fight?
He would fight.
So would she.
She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll go pack a bag now. You’re sure your father won’t mind a house guest?”
“He’ll be delighted. I’ll call him while you’re packing.” As Ann headed back down the narrow hall to the bedroom, Nathalie shouted after her, “You’d better text Brody, too. He won’t give you the space you need to train otherwise.”
Ann took her time composing the text, wanting to ensure Brody would give her space but not worry too much. She hit send then pulled out a small suitcase. And as she packed, she allowed hope to settle into her heart.
She could do this. For him. For herself. She would do this.
Chapter Fourteen
Brody hated that he couldn’t go see Ann, hated that she still wasn’t taking his calls, though she did send him a few texts. He hated more that he didn’t fully understand what was happening.
He flopped onto his huge couch and flicked restlessly through TV channels, gave up, dropped the remote on the coffee table, and resumed pacing his apartment—the same thing he’d been doing for two fucking weeks when he wasn’t at the gym or out for a long run. He’d started and stopped at least twelve different books, unable to focus on his favorite, non-hockey pastime. He’d probably run the equivalent of five marathons. And he’d trained harder than he’d ever trained in his life. It hadn’t done a thing to ease his frustration. Even grueling workouts at his boxing gym hadn’t helped.
Both Ann and Nathalie assured him Ann just had a bad flu—contagious according to a doctor, Nathalie said. Too contagious for him to see Ann. But after two weeks, he was beyond worried. If she was still sick and contagious after this long, could it be just a flu? What if she was sick with something worse and they weren’t tell him?
What if she wasn’t sick at all?
He didn’t even have his job to keep him distracted, damn it. He hadn’t minded getting suspended so much because he’d assumed he’d be spending the extra time with Ann. Instead, when he wasn’t working out like a madman, training to stay in shape but without the actual games to shed his restlessness, he paced his apartment, fretting like an old woman, irritable because he felt so damned helpless.
At least he was starting back to work tomorrow. He’d gotten the call just that morning that he was confirmed for the Empires’ next game.
There’d been a media thing going on since St. Laurent’s concussion and Brody’s suspension, led by a reporter out of Montreal. A huge blowup, questioning why the player Brody had beat up hadn’t gotten a suspension but Brody had. There’d been a lot of debate in the sports media, and all of it could have caused the Empires problems if not handled right.
He’d been ordered not to respond to the controversy, so he had politely refused to answer any questions reporters threw out him. He didn’t actually have much to say about it anyway. He’d been too concerned about Ann to do more than notice the debate peripherally. At the moment, how the NHL handled penalties and suspensions was the least of his worries.
He paced into his kitchen, contemplated his empty fridge, and considered ordering takeout even though his appetite wasn’t great. He needed to eat if he was getting back on the ice. Ignoring the phone and pile of takeaway menus next to it, he wandered back out to his living room.
He
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