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)
And my voice?
Doesn’t matter.
To anyone.
“Rumlow, take Danny Zuko over there to the meet with DPD in the west office,” Dixon orders during my exiting. “I’ll radio Conaway. Tell him to meet you there.” I’m several steps ahead, practically rounding the corner when he responds to a question being asked, “Yeah, I’ll radio Atwell to go by his team’s room to grab his coach.”
More words continue to be exchanged but fail from registering.
Exhaustion and irritation and outrage repeatedly cycle through my mind like 7-inch vinyls a DJ can’t seem to stop shuffling through resulting in my stumbling into the locker room as opposed to gracefully entering.
Snowman’s stare immediately zeroes in on me prompting him to ponder, “How in the hell do you look bloody worse than when you left?”
“Why’s Dix in here?” questions Peck offhandedly.
“’Cause it’s men’s hockey, F King,” Goonie Tune 2 lightly pokes.
“That’s where dicks are supposed to be,” his brother playfully adds.
“Wheaty,” I defeatedly call out prior to reaching my area, “gear up. You’re in.”
Our other tendy stops chewing mid bite, letting the bit of orange he had left tumble out of his open mouth. “Huh?”
“Coach is putting you in.”
“What?!” croaks Snowman in disbelief.
“Nyet.” Cap immediately bites. “Etogo ne proizoydet.” He slowly shakes his head while repeating it in English. “No. Not fucking happening.”
“I-I-I-I don’t wanna play,” Wheaty poorly mumbles out in between his own frantic headshakes. “I-I-I-I can’t play. Not now! Not when the boys clearly need you.”
“I wasn’t volunteerin’ to give you the pipes,” escapes at the same time I reach for my clearly vibrating cell. “I was told.” Once it’s in my possession, I plop down and inform, “I’m benched.”
“What the fuck did you do?!” Potato practically shouts at the top of his lungs.
“More like who the fuck he was doing,” Wahl murmurs loudly.
“Personal shite has to come after team shite,” Snowman insists and rises to his feet. “Ferda.”
“Ferda,” agrees our team leader, tossing his towel in the direction of the laundry bucket.
The slogan regarding we’re to always do what’s best for the team, for each other versus ourselves, has me ignoring the vibrations in my hand and briefly shutting my eyes again, this time in guilt.
Have I been doing that?
Or have I been selfishly putting me first?
My wants?
My needs?
My hopes?
My someday post-retirement dreams?
My fuckin’ soul?
Maybe I haven’t been letting my frustrations about being kept a fucking secret bleed out onto the ice, but I’m not sure continuing to date Coach’s sister behind his back was putting the team…the boys first.
“Coach knows that shit,” Goonie Tune 1 speaks up.
“Coach lives that shit,” his brother reiterates.
“He might simply need a reminder, aye?” Frosky tosses out prompting me to reopen my eyes.
“Groffee,” Cap calls out, summoning my stare in his direction once more, “you will be on that ice for those last twenty hard miles.”
And that’s what makes Igor Alexeyev the man for that position.
Worthy of that title.
He always fights for us.
He’s the type of player I hope my next team has on it when the inevitable trade call hits due to shit going down like this.
“Frosky,” Cap states on a head tilt, indicating to follow him. “Peck.”
There’s no hesitation from either of them to retreat out of the room on his heels.
Feeling my phone vibrating again, I drop my focus to it, Bronny’s picture immediately warranting an answer, “Yeah?”
“Thayne!” he shouts, voice shaky, damn near out of breath. “You didn’t answer!”
“I-”
“We got an emergency!”
“Wh-”
“And, and, and Gilly ain’t answerin’!”
“She-”
“And, and, and I can’t drive!”
“Why-”
“I mean I can drive but it ain’t legal yet!”
“Wha-”
“And damn sure not that far!”
“Wher-”
“And even if I could I ain’t got a car or truck or fuckin’ dirt bike! And this is why I need one!”
“Pause the track, little bro’,” I manage to say, frame crumbling slightly forward in concern. “Take a deep breath.”
“I can’t! Not now! There’s no time! I-”
“We make time,” escapes alongside me doing the action. “We’ll do it together.”
“But-”
“Whatever it is can wait one more sec, Bronson.” The firm declaration momentarily silences him. “Deep breath in.”
This time he audibly executes the instruction.
“Deep breath out.”
Once more, I can hear the action complete.
His stress level lowering.
My own recalibrating.
The beating in my chest now vibing more to a Kenny G track and less an Iron Madden cover.
“What’s goin’ on, Bronny?” Calmly investigating occurs in spite of the yelling I’m fairly certain is coming from the hallway. “What’s the emergency?”
“Grams.”
Chapter 22
Gillian
Assaulted, avenged, and exposed all in the amount of time it takes to floss and brush before bed.
I would be impressed if I wasn’t blatantly mortified.
And humiliated.
And a tad horrified.
“Do you wanna press charges?” inquires Hennington, thumbs hooking onto the pockets of her Dalvegan green wide leg pant suit bottoms.
“Of course, she wants to fucking press charges!” my brother yells, hands slamming violently onto the nearby examine table he’s been pacing behind. “What kind of fucking question is that?!”