Caged (Gold Hockey Book 11) by Elise Faber (romantic love story reading TXT) 📕

with her, since it was the first step of necessary oblivion, she made her way upstairs and into her bedroom, slipping into pajamas even though it was barely five in the evening.

“Plan, Douglas,” she muttered. “Stick with the plan.”

Right.

Wine. Check. Pajamas. Check. Mask. Next on the agenda.

She reached for the very expensive jar, washed her face, smeared on the cream, and then she belted on her robe, grabbed her glass, and headed back downstairs, plugging a food order into her cell for the fattiest, greasiest carb load she could find.

In forty-five minutes, she was going to be at a great place.

Nearing a heart attack.

But all the happier for it.

“Movie,” she whispered, cueing it up as she popped some popcorn—because if she was going for greasy and fatty, she needed that, too.

Pretty soon, she was on the couch, the slasher flick rolling, buttery fingers gripping her wine and feeling so much better for it. There was no thought of unhappy endings, no heartbreak and pain.

Just actors on a screen playing a part.

And a nice buzz floating through her brain.

She wouldn’t think about the past, about Brandon—

The doorbell rang, just in the nick of time.

She paused the movie before jumping up and hurrying down the hall, her memories chasing her like the hounds of hell. The food was early, thankfully, would take her mind further off everything that had happened.

Flicking the lock, she turned the handle, pulled open the door, expecting to see a delivery person with a bag in hand.

Instead, she saw . . .

She blinked.

Impossible.

The wine had gone to her head, because he could not be on her porch. She was hallucinating. The alcohol content of the pinot noir was higher than she’d expected. This was food, that was all—

“Brandon?” she whispered.

The figment of her imagination stepped forward, the shadows disappearing from his face.

“It’s me, Fan.”

Her lips parted, every cell inside her waiting for his next words.

“I remember,” he murmured. “I remember everything.”

Her buttery fingers spasmed, and she lost her hold on her wine.

Glass shattered.

Red splattered all over her bare feet.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, her breath catching. “Not again.”

—Crashed, July 26th, 2021

Crashed

Fanny’s story is coming July 27th, 2021. Preorder your copy at www.books2read.com/CrashedEF

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Gold Hockey Series

Blocked

Backhand

Boarding

Benched

Breakaway

Breakout

Checked

Coasting

Centered

Charging

Caged

Gold Hockey

Did you miss any of the Gold Hockey books?

Find information about the full series here.

Or keep reading for a sneak peek into each of the books below!

Blocked

Gold Hockey Book #1

Get your copy at books2read.com/Blocked

Brit

The first question Brit always got when people found out she played ice hockey was “Do you have all of your teeth?”

The second was “Do you, you know, look at the guys in the locker room?”

The first she could deal with easily—flash a smile of her full set of chompers, no gaps in sight. The second was more problematic. Especially since it was typically accompanied by a smug smile or a coy wink.

Of course she looked. Everybody looked once. Everyone snuck a glance, made a judgment that was quickly filed away and shoved deep down into the recesses of their mind.

And she meant way down.

Because, dammit, she was there to play hockey, not assess her teammates’ six packs. If she wanted to get her man candy fix, she could just go on social media. There were shirtless guys for days filling her feed.

But that wasn’t the answer the media wanted.

Who cared about locker room dynamics? Who gave a damn whether or not she, as a typical heterosexual woman, found her fellow players attractive?

Yet for some inane reason, it did matter to people.

Brit wasn’t stupid. The press wanted a story. A scandal. They were desperate for her to fall for one of her teammates—or better yet the captain from their rival team—and have an affair that was worthy of a romantic comedy.

She’d just gotten very good at keeping her love life—as nonexistent as it was—to herself, gotten very good at not reacting in any perceptible way to the insinuations.

So when the reporter asked her the same set of questions for the thousandth time in her twenty-six years, she grinned—showing off those teeth—and commented with a sweetly innocent “Could’ve sworn you were going to ask me about the coed showers.” She waited for the room-at-large to laugh then said, “Next question, please.”

–Blocked, books2read.com/Blocked

Backhand

Gold Hockey Book #2

Get your copy at books2read.com/Backhand

Sara

“Sorry I messed up your sketch,” he rumbled.

She nibbled on the side of her mouth, biting back a smile. “Sorry I stole your hand for so long.”

He shrugged. “My mom’s an artist. I get it.”

Well, there went her battle with the smile. Her lips twitched and her teeth came out of hiding. If there was one thing that Sara had, it was her smile. It had been her trademark in her competition days.

Which were long over.

Her mouth flattened out, the grin slipping away. Time to go, time to forget, to move on, to rebuild. “Thanks,” she said and extended a hand.

Then winced and dropped it when her ribs cried out in protest.

“You okay?” he asked, head tilting, eyes studying her.

“Fine.” And out popped her new smile. The fake one. Careful of her aching side, she shrugged into her backpack. “I’ve got to go.” She turned, ponytail flapping through the hair to land on her opposite shoulder.

“That—” He touched her arm. “Wait. I know I know you.”

She froze. That was the second time he’d said that, and now they were getting into dangerous territory. Recognition meant . . . no. She couldn’t.

There had been a time when everyone had known her. Her face on Wheaties boxes, her smile promoting toothpaste and credit cards alike.

That wasn’t her life any longer.

“Thanks again. Bye.” She started to hurry away.

“Wait.” A hand dropped on to her shoulder, thwarting her escape, and she hissed in pain.

“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t release her. Instead, he shifted his grip from her aching shoulder down to her elbow and when she didn’t protest, he