Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
I’ll tell you what she does—she takes the edge of my blanket and uses her free leg to kick me in my back as she pulls my blanket. I roll like a damn pig in the mud and land flat on my ass on the floor.
I stare up at her, and she grins as she folds my blanket with ease. “Oh, look. You’re up. Let’s go.”
I watch her retreating back in shock.
Man, I hope I’m just like her when I grow up.
My need to rot is replaced by the need to skate once we enter the Ice Thistle.
I somehow had forgotten how much peace this place brings me. It was where I ran to hide when my parents overwhelmed me, asking me to be more than I could be. This is my place to skate, to exist as myself.
It’s my home.
Together, Kitty and I head toward our destination. The south rink is where rec league hockey is played. It’s been that way since I was old enough to skate. It’s where everyone learns to skate, but also where adult men come to play like they’re in the NHL and not a beer league in the South. The entrance to the south rink holds the Beer League Cups for each league. Think the amazing and beautifully designed Stanley Cup, but made of beer cans with plaques for the teams that won hot-glued to each can. There is a cup for each league—C League being for beginner adults, B League for intermediate, and then A League for the wash-ups who didn’t make it pro and are living out their glory days beating the shit out of one another before seeing one another at work the next day.
Tonight is an A League game, which is why the parking lot is full and the lobby is buzzing. Our town turns out for their local heroes—and, of course, for the gossip. As I walk in with Kitty, her hand tucked into my arm, I carry our blankets. Everyone stops and waves, wishes Kitty well, and then looks me over. I’m unsure if they’re staring at me because I looked like a busted can of biscuits when I was running toward Grandpa’s funeral or because I haven’t been here in years.
Either way, my skin tingles.
I hate the way this town stares at me. I feel like, because of how my parents hold themselves, feigning perfection as they run the town and help Smokey Bear prevent forest fires, I have to do the same. I know if I don’t keep up the appearance they do, they’ll come down on me. I don’t know why I’m still scared of that at my age, but I am. I hate it too. It’s exhausting trying to be their perfect version of me.
Because holding in all this crazy is a full-time job.
When we reach the doors to the south rink, I notice that someone has made a memorial for Grandpa. A huge photo of him with the cup above his head while he roars with excitement meets me, leaving me breathless. It’s from two years ago, and he looks so damn happy. So damn healthy. How is he gone? Tears burn my eyes as I look over at Kitty, whose eyes mirror mine. I know the jersey that Kitty wears is the one he wore since it’s got a tinge of yellow from years of sweat. While the one she gave me is pristine just like her. Flowers have been placed around his photo, sweet notes from friends and some from his clients. It’s very beautiful and thoughtful.
She leans into me and smiles. “That’s nice. I’m sure JT is responsible.”
Probably. I don’t say that, though, not when I’m still so annoyed with him. I can’t believe how he stormed off, how he hasn’t even reached out to me. I don’t know why he wouldn’t want to run this building with me. It’s obvious the figure skating program is nonexistent. When I was here, the pro shop was half figure skating equipment and half hockey. With one look, I can tell it’s all hockey now. I don’t know what happened, but I want to fix it.
This is my home, and it should be the home of the next Olympic hopeful.
“Want me to show you around?”
“Nah, I’m good.” I shake my head, patting her hand. “I’ll explore on Monday when I come in to meet with Jett.”
She meets my gaze. “Has he reached out?”
“Not at all.”
“Stubborn fool,” she mutters as we head in.
When we enter, a game is finishing up between my old private school, The Rink Rulers, and the town’s public school, Blades of Knowledge. Our town takes its team names seriously, and I’m pretty sure if you don’t have a cool name, you can’t play. It’s been like that since Grandpa opened the place.