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)
I thank Jacinta, then leave, texting Mabel as I return to the personnel area.
Corbin: There’s something waiting for you at the gift shop. You should go before the game.
It’s not over till it’s over, but we’re up by three when we return to the ice before the third period. None of those points are courtesy of me, but who cares? They belong to the Foxes, and that’s all that matters.
Actually, that’s a lie. I’d really like at least one to be mine.
I’m centering the line for the face-off. The ref drops the puck, and I tie up their center’s stick, kicking the puck back to Ivan. He snags it, then passes it back to me two seconds later. The ice opens up ahead, and I hit the blue line with the same—no, more speed—than I used when I raced myself on the bike earlier. It’s just the goalie and me now. He’s sliding out ahead of the posts, playing the angles.
So am I. I fake the shot high, and he bites, going for it, then I hit it low and precise. The puck screams right past him.
The lamp lights.
I thrust my stick in the air, and the tension I’ve been carrying for weeks starts to unknot. Riggs and Lake crash into me along the boards as the crowd goes wild. It’s louder than a concert in here. The cheers reverberate in my bones.
This is what I love—when it comes together. For the team, the fans, and me.
Through the noise, I scan for Mabel, and there she is with a friend in the seats at center ice, jumping up and down and wearing my jersey.
She’s not working on her tablet. She’s just looking good in lilac and being my good luck charm.
The Foxes close it out with a 5-2 W that feels really fucking good.
So do the texts she sends—or accidentally sends, since they arrive in multiples. In the locker room, I look away from my teammates as I read the exchange while stripping off my jersey. Don’t want anyone to see my face.
Mabel: You didn’t have to.
Mabel: You seriously didn’t have to.
Mabel: Even though this jersey does make me look kind of sexy, doesn’t it?
Mabel: Maybe I should ask Alexa? Alexa, does this lilac low-cut jersey make me look sexy?
Alexa: I can’t see it, but sexy is in the eye of the beholder.
Mabel: Alexa, even you can’t get me down.
Alexa: Get down often refers to—
Mabel: Alexa, stop. You didn’t have to, Corbin. But also, you should know I look really good in lilac :)
Corbin: I know, Mabel. I absolutely know.
I don’t turn around and look back at my teammates for a good, long time. Once I’m showered and changed, I slide into dad mode. Time to shut the door on this inappropriate flirtation and focus on Charlotte.
I head to the kids’ lounge to pick her up. It’s after nine, but I should be able to get her home by ten. A bunch of the guys got together and arranged for a sitter during home games, following the example of Rowan Bishop, who set up a family suite over at the Sea Dogs, our cross-town rivals. It’s a huge help to the dads on the team.
When I push open the door, Charlotte pops up, grabbing her backpack and trotting over to me. “Good job tonight, Dad. That broke your three-game point-less streak.”
“Thanks,” I say, though I frown at the reminder.
“It’s a good thing,” she assures me, then pats her backpack. “I finished my homework super early, so I did some analysis on your stats. Want to go over them?”
I stretch my neck from side to side. Tonight, I need to spend a little time with an ice pack rather than a spreadsheet. “How about tomorrow?”
“Fair enough.” She shifts gears as we head into the hall. “Theo stopped by during the second period. He offered to help me with math, so I gave him an extra problem to do, even though it wasn’t on my homework.”
“That was…tricky of you,” I say, impressed with her brain.
“Thanks. It amused me.”
“Glad something does.”
“A dog would amuse me more,” she says, lifting her eyes hopefully.
I wish I could say yes, but there’s no way. “Charlotte, we hardly have time.”
“I could come up with a schedule for the dog and for us. We could make it work. I know I could figure it out.”
“If anyone could, it’s you. But you’re only at my house half the time. Plus, my schedule is complicated. I’m gone a lot.”
She sighs. “I know. I wish there were an algebra equation for adopting a dog.”
“Me too, kid. Me too.” I squeeze her shoulder, then grab her backpack from her and sling it over my shoulder. Least I can do is carry it. “Did you let Theo think he was helpful? With the math?”