Tate (HOCKEY ROYALTY #2) by Victoria Denault EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Victoria Denault
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Tate
18 months later
I barely have my gloves off when my phone buzzes from the pocket of
my suit jacket hanging behind me in my locker. I rush to grab it, but it’s
Conner and not my dad so I send it to voicemail and continue undressing.
Nash Westwood is grinning at me from across the dressing room.
“What?” I ask, a smile playing on my mouth. “It’s no big deal.”
“You liar. It’s the biggest deal for guys like us,” Nash replies as he
brushes his dirty blond hair, damp with sweat, off his forehead.
I smirk and shrug. He’s right, of course. Our eyes meet and he knows I
appreciate his understanding. Being the son, or daughter, of a famous
athlete is a club we both belong to. Being the only son of arguably the best
hockey player in the last two decades is an honor and a curse, Nash shares
with his twin brother Crew. Their dad, Avery Westwood, was the league’s
number-one golden boy when he played. He set a lot of records that still
stand today but not the record for the most short-handed goals in a season.
That’s held by my dad, Jordan Garrison. And, after tonight, I’m so close to
beating it, I can taste it.
My phone is beeping and buzzing like it’s having a software meltdown.
I ignore all of it, not even glancing at it. Nash’s eyes keep darting to it,
though, as it bounces and buzzes on the bench beside me and I shrug.
“Family group text. They’re brutal when you have eight cousins, three
aunts, three uncles, and two grandparents.”
“And all of them know or play hockey and all of them have big
opinions,” Nash adds.
I grin. “Big, well-meaning but annoying opinions.”
“Remind me to thank my Uncle Seb and Aunt Shayne for having
puppies instead of children,” Nash quips.
My phone rings again. The name on the screen is “The ‘Rents”. I pick up
this time and fight like hell to sound as nonchalant as possible. “Hey.”
“Hey my ass,” Dad says, and I fucking love the sound of his voice. I
always like talking to my dad. We’ve never even had a rough patch in our
relationship.
Not even when I was a cocky, brash, hormonal teenager. But
now, listening to his voice thick with pride, it’s the best sound in the entire
world. “You are just three goals away from not just matching my record, but
breaking it. You little, amazing shit. I am so proud of you.”
“Three is a lot when there’s only ten games left in the regular season,” I
remind him. I can get three goals in seven games with one arm tied behind
my back, blindfolded. But this isn’t about just getting goals. It’s shorthanded goals. We need to be on a power play, down one person, on the
defensive, for me to score a goal that will count against my dad’s record.
Short-handed goals are this magical clusterfuck of circumstances, talent and
luck.
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