Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
The clatter of sticks on the slick surface rebounds from the boards as we fly again and again till Coach blows the whistle. Everyone snaps their gazes to the commanding man leaning against the glass, who’s been our coach for the last several years. Coach Ahmed played in the pros too, all the more impressive since he was born in Egypt, which isn’t exactly a hotbed for hockey. But his family moved to Canada when he was six or seven, so he took up the Canadian national pastime, and the rest is history.
“All right, men. Anyone in the mood to score some goals?”
Not sure if he’s being ironic, since we’ve been struggling in that area, or just trying to keep things light. Either way, Miller grunts from the net, “Like I’d let them.”
“It’s shooting practice, Lockwood,” Coach calls out to Miller. No one ever uses first names on the ice.
Miller just shrugs as he guards the net, helmet covering his face, that smile long gone. He’s stone now as he shifts back and forth in front of the net—he’d consider it rude to ever let a goal in. But we set up in two lines, taking turns passing and then shooting. Miller’s good, one of the top goalies in the game, and I’d really like to make his job easier by putting more points on the board when we play against opponents, but right now I’d like to score on him.
I try to fake him out, feinting to the left, but he tracks me with those unflinching eyes, and when I flick a wrist shot toward an opening, he lunges and sends it right back out.
He does it again and again and fucking yet again.
But the next time I’m ferrying the puck down the ice, I move to the left like I’m going to snap in another wrist shot, only I switch it up at the last second…with a backhand.
And, yes!
It slides past him, lodging in the twine. I can actually hear him growl, then curse himself.
It’s just a goal in practice.
It’s meaningless, ultimately.
But it’s a fucking ray of hope compared to how the last few games have gone.
Maybe it’s a reminder, too, that sometimes I need to do things a little differently.
We head down the tunnel when practice ends. Charlotte will still be working diligently in the kids’ lounge, which is what she and some of the other players’ kids have dubbed the players’ lounge. That means I guess I’d better tell the guys about my…gulp…bakery.
Why the fuck am I so nervous about this? Miller already knows, since I had to tell him the details after Charlotte spilled the beans. And my friends know I kick ass in the baking department. Hell, I’ve gone to their homes and saved them when they needed to make pies for Thanksgiving, cakes for Mother’s Day, or Valentine’s Day goodies for their spouses or partners.
But maybe that’s how to approach this—I’ve helped others with my whisk-and-apron skills. Now I’m actually doing this for myself. Marketing myself.
It’s one thing to brainstorm with Mabel over text—texts that I did, in fact, read several times. How could I not? They were so very her. But how will this bakery be seen by the town and the world? Athletes usually open bars when their careers wind down, or gyms, or they go into sportscasting. They don’t often open bakeries with their best friend’s sister—especially bakeries with pink motifs, which ours will have, since Mabel’s made it clear it’s pink or death.
The rest of the team filters down the tunnel, and I hang back with my closest friends. We make our way along the cavernous corridor, skates clunking against the floor, and I draw a big breath, bracing myself to share personal shit. But then Miller claps my shoulder and flashes his signature grin. “Guess what, boys? Knighty Night has some big news for us.”
I can’t stand that nickname, which is why he uses it now and then. To poke the bear. His favorite pastime.
“You finally learned how to use social media, Dad?” Lake asks, with an overly earnest tilt of his head, his shoulder-length hair falling in a sweaty mess around his face.
“Yes, and I figured out how to dial on a rotary phone too.”
“Sweet. I always had faith in you,” he retorts.
Miller’s practically bouncing on his skates, a kid at Christmas, eyes glinting. “Guys, this news is good.”
Riggs furrows his brow, studying me intently with nearly black eyes. Then he nods, like he’s figured it out. “We’re letting Lake into the club?”
I groan, scrubbing a hand down the back of my neck, then give Riggs a look. “It’s not a club. You know it’s not a club, Decker,” I say, using Riggs’s last name.
“It’s for sure a club if you’re denying it.” Lake sighs heavily, just so damn disappointed in us. “Whatever. I’ll let the press know you don’t like cats, and that’s why you won’t let Thor and me in. Bet that’ll go over well.”