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“You’re pretty hard on yourself, Guns. But the more you focus on your failures, the more cluttered your brain will be. Give yourself a little grace. And stop trying so hard. You’re your own worst enemy, sometimes.”
“A man doesn’t go to another country and risk his life to rescue the woman he doesn’t want.
He was such a pitiful romantic, it made him ill. So no, it wasn’t the fish. Or the beer, but his broken heart that turned his body to poison.
She’d opened up a tiny fissure of hope within him, one that had released some pretty long tamped-down desires. Home. Love. A fresh start that didn’t include lies, living with one eye over his shoulder, and the perpetual screaming in his head that he’d long learned how to hide. She made him feel free, and shoot, after a decade in his own cruel prison, he needed that like a man needed air.
And York was going to survive this and find the woman he loved—no, not loved, but maybe needed—no matter what it took.
“Last time I saw her, I let her go without a fight. I was stupid and hurt and angry. This time…this time, I’m probably still stupid and hurt and angry, but I’m also…well, I know what a jerk I can be, and I don’t want to be that guy anymore.”
Well, he had about two days to prove that he could be the guy she needed. The guy to keep her safe. What was it that York said…as long as he had breath in him? Yeah, well, ditto. Drop the puck. Game time.
“You are not alone, Coco,” she’d said softly. “And right now, you don’t need to be strong. God is with you. And He will rescue you.”
His blue eyes held a rare twinkle. “Oh goody. Another Marshall brother.” He caught her hand. “Let’s see. Ford beat me up. Wyatt nearly got me killed. Maybe Tate can get me arrested.”
“You will never stop enough pucks. You will never have enough stats. You will never land on enough covers. Never. Because the problem isn’t up here.” He pointed at Wyatt’s head. “It’s in here.” He poked now at Wyatt’s chest. “You need to hear the same thing my wife said to me. You will not be free of the striving until you hear the voice of your true Father telling you that you are loved. You are delighted in. You are enough, Wyatt.”
A danger radiated off York, the way he looked at someone with an almost suspicious look, his gaze a little unforgiving. Trouble with a capital T. Or maybe a capital Y.
Change your name or change your ways. His name wasn’t Marshall. Or even the Hottie of Hockey. It was beloved son.
“I’m right here. And I’m not leaving. I promise.” Because, hello, he’d gone to Russia to find the woman he loved. And he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. Ever again. Because he was a Marshall. And Marshalls kept their promises.
