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)
I couldn’t wait for Malcolm to get back.
Yeah, fine…fuck off. It was true.
Two weeks apart had felt like a small eternity and I’d missed the hell out of him. We’d made up for lost time when he finally returned, screwing our brains out for days on end. He’d slept over every night this past week, and that might be something he’d have to explain to Layla, but for now…it was all so good.
And the fact that the Bears were winning was icing on the cake. By mid-January, we were number three in our division. Number fucking three. All I needed was for Randall to come through with a contract.
In the meantime, we had another game to win.
We were up 3 to 1 against Central with two minutes to go in the third period. Earlier in the season, we’d had a tendency to play keep-away at this juncture. No reason to tempt fate and risk giving up a point. Play safe, not sorry. Not anymore.
I drove into the right line, signaled to Langley. His pass was a thing of beauty, perfectly executed and unreachable for anyone but me. I raced for the goal, aware that I had two defenders on my tail. I had to dump it. No…not yet. Brady was coming. I had to be patient… Hold it, hold it.
And there he was. I slung the puck to Brady, who snapped it between the goalie’s pads. The lamp lit and the fans cheered as the Bears gathered at center ice, hooting and tapping sticks. I whooped and pivoted to join them just as my knee buckled.
A piercing pain sliced across my kneecap, pulling me to a stop.
Shit.
Okay, this happened every once in a while. No need to panic.
I hobbled to the bench, gritting my teeth under my smile. I couldn’t remember ever being more grateful for a line change. Ice and rest would do the trick.
The mood in the locker room was electric, and Coach’s speech about finding our rhythm at the right time resonated.
“You’re out there to win, and I saw that spirit in every damn one of you,” Coach Beekman bellowed. “Let’s keep it up, boys. Oh, one more thing. We have a visitor—Walker from What’s New, Smithton? asked for a quick postgame interview and PR thinks it’s a good idea.”
We turned on cue to the bubbly redhead in the doorway aiming his cell at the locker room. The cheers were replaced by mild jeers.
“Be nice, boys,” Coach warned. “On three…Bears!”
Someone yelled, “Three, two, one!”
“Bears!”
The lockers rattled at the resounding whoop. My knee wasn’t even bugging me now. I was riding a sweet high that couldn’t be dampened by irritating things like the overeager dude shoving a microphone in my face.
“Hi, there. I’m Walker and I gotta tell you, I’m a huge fan.”
“Thanks.”
“I know this is your final season at Smithton. Any idea what comes next?”
I shook my head as I pulled my pads off. “No.”
His smile faltered, but he rallied. “What’s your favorite postgame snack?”
“Now, that’s a good question. Bear Depot’s fries are awesome. Oh, and a friend of mine makes a good brownie. Out of a box, but still tasty.”
Walker held his hand up for a high five. “Thank you for your time. Ty Czerniak, mind if I ask…”
I snickered at Ty’s put-upon expression and continued undressing.
“Erickson, I want to see you,” Coach barked from the exit. “Take a shower and meet me in my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
Was that odd?
Yeah…kinda.
Coach wasn’t the type to hold back positive or negative critiques in a public forum. But I wasn’t worried. I’d been playing like a beast, and that last assist tonight had been a master class in patience. Whatever he wanted couldn’t be bad.
Wrong.
“I want an MRI on that knee.”
“Coach?”
“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t notice, did you?” He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and narrowed his eyes. “I thought better of mentioning it in front of a guy who wants to share some insider hockey gossip with the entire damn school, but I hear you’ve been in for massages, asking for extra tape, and icing the hell out of it. If you have a tear—”
“I don’t.”
“Or a sprain,” he continued as if I hadn’t interrupted. “You gotta deal with it. What are you afraid of? A little rest never hurt anyone, Erickson.”
“I can’t rest yet. I don’t have a contract.” My pulsing knee mocked me as I chewed on my lower lip. “I’ve had a few setbacks, but I’m doing better now and—”
“Get the MRI. Schedule it with the trainer. We’ll talk Monday.”
Fuck.
CHAPTER 19
JETT
Five days later, I was diagnosed with a mild MCL tear.
“It appears that you’ve managed this with ice, compression, and elevation, but no rest. You need PT and a lot of rest. A knee brace will help too. Any questions?”
No. It sucked, and I couldn’t do anything about it. The doctor passed his recommendation to our trainer, who of course consulted Coach Beekman.