Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
But something had changed for me this year, and the weight of expectation felt heavier than ever.
This was it for me. The end of the line. My final season, my final shot at the future I’d dreamed of. I wished it were a foregone conclusion that I’d find a new home in the pros, but sadly, there was no guarantee.
My stats alone weren’t going to get me signed. I knew that, but part of me resented the pressure to put on a show for the scouts. My show was the game I played every damn time I took to the ice. If that wasn’t enough…I was kinda screwed.
Even Malcolm had admitted that my stats were what made me an interesting candidate for his experiment. But the fact that he didn’t seem to know much about hockey was oddly refreshing. He wanted a piece of my time for science.
That was weird. But in a cool way.
Maybe.
I couldn’t decide.
And why was I thinking about Malcolm again? I should have been thinking about—
“Erickson? Are you there?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry. I’m ready,” I assured my agent. “We’ll play our asses off Saturday night. And win.”
“And your knee?” Randall asked.
“It’s fine.”
“Glad to hear that. Anything else going on?”
“Well…” I scratched my nape and shrugged, though the gesture was lost in the connection. “No. Why?”
Randall sighed. “Listen, kid. I believe in you. I keep in touch with your coach and I see highlights. Sometimes you look sharp as fuck, and sometimes you look like you’re wound so tight, you’re gonna explode. These two scouts aren’t heavy hitters, but there’ll be bigger names behind them. You gotta be ready.”
“I’m ready,” I repeated.
“Good. I’m not telling you to work harder. That’s your coach’s job. I’m suggesting that you work smarter. Don’t go balls to the wall and fuck up your knee again.”
“I take care of it,” I assured him, launching into a report of my icing routine that should have bored anyone with a pulse within ten seconds.
Randall lasted five. “Balance is important too, Jett. You gotta pay attention to your mental health. Do something to quiet your mind, you know? Something outside of your usual routine. Try yoga or meditation…”
Yoga? Meditation? The fuck?
“Uh…yeah. Sure.”
“Great chat. I’ll check in with you soon.”
I ended the call and stared into space for a moment, then called my dad.
He answered on the fifth ring. “I’ve got two minutes. What’s up?”
“Any idea why Randall’s telling me to try yoga?”
The line was silent for a beat. “No, but…I don’t have time to talk. He knows what he’s doing, Jett. Listen to him.”
I swiped a hand over my stubbled jaw. “Yoga isn’t the point. It felt more as if he’s preparing me for failure in the nicest way possible.”
“You won’t fail. Your future is secure even without hockey, so quit worrying. I have a meeting now, but we’ll catch up soon.”
The line went dead.
I was instantly pissed at myself. I shouldn’t have called my fucking father. He had his own agenda. “Hockey’s nice and all, and if it works out—which it probably won’t— there’s always real estate.”
Fuck real estate, fuck yoga, fuck meditation.
I wouldn’t deny that I could use a diversion of some kind, though.
What I really needed was to disconnect for a few hours and find something, anything else to think about besides failure, doom, and uncertainty.
Buzz buzz
I glanced down at my phone and read a new text from Ty.
Watching the game at Langley’s. Get your ass over here.
What do you know? I typed a quick message.
Be there in ten.
I tossed my cell onto my kitchen counter and put my jacket on, slipping my wallet into my pocket along with my keys. I rescued my phone just as a new message popped up. I spared it a casual glimpse, pre-annoyed that Ty was already badgering me to hurry up or to buy a six pack on my way. But it wasn’t Ty.
This is Jett, correct? Where will you be in ten? Is that ten minutes or ten hours? Our scheduled rendezvous is in approximately twenty-two hours. Perhaps this message isn’t intended for me? Please reply with confirmation.
My lips curled into what felt like my first real smile of the day.
It’s me. Sorry. That wasn’t for you. I input your number from the card you gave me.
Excellent.
See you tomorrow, Maloney.
Thumbs-up emoji. Thank you and have a nice evening.
I shoved my cell into my pocket and pulled it out again. I thought you were busy tonight. Don’t tell me you’re texting in class.
My cell buzzed before I reached the door.
I am, and it’s very rude of me. I’m making an exception because this is our first text thread. I was afraid that our wires were crossed and that I was obliged to be somewhere in ten minutes. I’m relieved that isn’t the case.
I shouldn’t have been surprised that he texted like he spoke, but it caught me off guard and there I was, grinning like a fool for no good reason.