Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
I’m planning to spend the rest of my life with one.
Chapter 21
Thayne
There are shit games and then there are shit games.
Like this.
We’re talkin’ last cup of coffee in the house is burnt bad.
We’re talkin’ locked out of every music app on your phone bad.
We’re talkin’ dropped down to the ECHL for the remainder of my contract bad.
“Fuckin’ come on, Hall,” I tap the post to my right, “get your shit together, Oates.” My stick clicks against the one to my left. “Give me more “Kiss on My List’.” Folding my frame forward into a defensive stance is executed next. “’Less Out of Touch’.”
The zeb drops the biscuit in our defensive zone, and thankfully – fucking thankfully – Peck wins the faceoff against the Camelot Cheetahs.
Unfortunately, that’s where my gratitude ends.
One of their larger defensemen invades the space around the crease not only blocking my ability to successfully track the puck but forcing the Goonie Tunes to invade the area as well in hopes of providing the coverage needed.
And it is needed.
I’ve already let two in.
Fucking. Two.
I can’t afford a third.
Not today.
Especially not today.
This is the last game Coach will have seen me play before he meets me as her boyfriend, meanin’ I need this win.
The last thing I want is him thinkin’ about what an embarrassment I am on his team and lettin’ that transfer into what an embarrassment I must be as a boyfriend.
Spotting the tiny black dot coming my way, has me dropping to my knees and sliding in the same direction it seems to be soaring; however, its trajectory is abruptly shifted by someone else’s stick.
And then someone else’s.
And then someone else’s again.
Each pass steers my padded frame between the posts, vision locked onto the tiny object, stare continuously swimming past a sea of thighs and ass and sticks in order to anticipate where to get my blocker or glove or slice my stick.
My teams steady inability to get it past the blue line repeatedly twists my nerves.
Causes me to clamp down on my mouthguard.
Weave and dodge.
Dodge and duck.
Insults are barked in between shoves, though fading everything out to stay focused on the small object barreling towards me is easily done.
It’s second nature.
Like finding the baseline in a Stevie Wonder song.
And much like successfully finding that rhythm, I snatch the puck out of the air, preventing it from bouncing off of Hall into the net.
Eruptions of cheers echo throughout the stadium while I simply exhale.
Shake my bucket bearing head to regather my bearings.
Bounce the rubber around to prove to myself that it is indeed where it belongs.
Some muddled swearing in a different language from the d-man that had been blocking my view is attached to him skating off for a line change, an action that precedes one of the linesmen coming over to collect the coveted item out of my catcher.
“Smooth moves, Groffee,” Goonie Tune 1 insists with a small tap to my pads.
“Silky shit, Tendy,” echoes Goonie Tune 2, mirroring the action of his brother.
“Such a bloody beauty,” Snowman sings during his touch skate by.
“Keep it up,” Cap insists at the same time his stick encouragingly swats the same space.
“You’ve got this,” Peck follows suit with his praises matching those of our teammates.
Everyone loves a goalie when they stop the puck.
Just like everyone hates us when we don’t.
Praise and condemnation are a constant duo for me here on the ice.
Not necessarily my favorite tunes but undoubtedly the voices I recognize the most.
“Way to hit the right notes, Hall,” I murmur and tap to the goal post . “You better keep those ‘Private Eyes’ open, Oates.” A second hit to the other is made. “We’ve got more work to do.”
Lowering myself back into position is followed by another faceoff as well as another faceoff win from Peck.
Bud rarely loses them.
It’s his gift.
Like tending is mine.
One of Camelot’s players grabs possession of the puck and immediately attempts to send it soaring only to have Goonie Tune 2 dive directly in its path, breaking its momentum, allowing me an easy opportunity to cover the object at the top of the crease.
The whistle blowing is easily drowned out courtesy of the claps thundering around the stadium.
I love that sound.
It’s sweeter than hearing a needle drop on a vinyl.
Sweeter than that first sip of a fresh brew.
Hell, the only thing sweeter is hearing my Slayer say my nickname.
And fuck me, have I missed that sound.
Post surrendering over the prize once more, I’m delivered another round of pad taps while I steal a small glimpse of the clock above, noting the few seconds we have left in the period.
Ten seconds.
I just need to get through these next ten seconds, and I can breathe.
We can fucking breathe.
“Gimme ten, Hall,” my voice is low and shaky. “Need jus’ ten, Oates.”
Having the puck dropped again in our zone requires me to stay on alert; however, this time, the opposing team decides to get closer.