Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
No call, of course.
I spin out, regain my footing, and the puck stays with me. It always does. But something in me snaps. I feel that surge of aggression, the same one that’s raced through me since I started playing as a five-year-old on the frozen ponds of rural Saskatchewan. They said it would hold me back, but I call it survival. That edge has always kept me on top. Unpredictability reigns supreme on the ice and I’m the king of it.
I stop skating, drop my gloves mid-stride and charge. I can practically hear Coach groan in protest from the bench. I slam into Wiggins, sending both of us into the boards. My fist is already cocked before he knows what’s happening.
One jab. Then another. Then a third.
Quick and surgical, all torque fueled by bad intentions. I feel the pop of knuckles against helmet, then flesh. The third one lands clean, right beneath his eye. A dark ribbon of blood snakes down his cheek, drips onto his jersey, vivid against the white. He staggers, arms flailing for balance, mouth open as if he’s trying to figure out what just hit him.
“You don’t fuck with me, you pussy!” I roar. “Ever!”
The linesmen fly in, vultures trying to peel me off. One hooks my arm from behind, trying to pin me, while another wedges himself between us, Wiggins now slumped against the boards. My fists are still clenched, my knuckles raw and my lungs burning as if I’d sprinted a marathon in full gear.
“That’s enough, McAvoy!” the linesman barks, grabbing the back of my jersey. “Let him go.”
I don’t. Not right away.
“You gonna call that bullshit hit?!” I snap, eyes locked on him. “Or are you just here to clean up after the damage is done?”
His face hardens. “It was a clean check.”
“Clean? Are you blind, stripes?” I twist against the hold. “He went right for my head!”
“And you went for his face with your fists,” the linesman fires back. “You want a career left when this is over?”
“I’m not here to make friends,” I growl. “I’m here to win.”
“You keep this up, and you’ll be winning from the press box.”
Then I glance up. Instinct, mostly.
The press box is a blur of suits pretending to be shocked. Some have their heads buried in their phones, already tweeting about my latest “meltdown.” I can practically hear the headlines writing themselves.
Next to the press box, the rafters hang heavy with ghosts. Old banners ripple, faded green and stitched in glory: ’91. ’92. ’93. ’94. The Vipers dynasty years. Back when the sport was brasher, back when legends wore this jersey and championship parades shut down all of Manhattan.
But like all dynasties are destined to do, it crumbled. For the last thirty years, the Vipers haven’t sniffed a championship. No rings or banners, and certainly not parades. Just heartbreak and rebuilds and paper-thin playoff runs that fell apart the second the team crossed the Hudson River.
Langley hates those empty decades. You can feel it. Every time his face flashes on the Jumbotron, tight-lipped and manicured, it’s as if he’s daring the past to challenge him.
He wants a new banner. One with his fingerprints all over it, one that erases the decades of failure. One that finally, finally ends the drought.
And like it or not, I’m the guy he’s betting on to make that happen. After leading all players in scoring the last two years, I have arrived as the league’s next superstar, and superstars do what they want.
The city wants a hero. Langley wants a legacy. All I want is the puck on my stick and someone dumb enough to try to take it from me.
The referee’s tight grip on my jersey jolts me back to the present. I smirk as he finally skates me off the ice and ushers me toward the locker room.
“That’s a game misconduct, McAvoy,” barks the ref. “You’re done for the night.”
I don’t bother wasting any more breath on this battle. I made Wiggins pay for his dirty hit and I’m feeling good about every bit of it.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, I’m peeling off my shin pads, the steam still coming off my sweat-drenched bare chest. My teammates enter victorious, thanks in large part to my two-goal performance.
Tanner slaps a towel across my back as he passes, wide-eyed and grinning. “You gonna leave any glory for the rest of us?”
I smirk and drag a hand through my soaked hair. “You keep feeding me tape-to-tape passes like that, I might start charging you for the privilege.”
He laughs, tossing his gloves into his stall. “Two goals and a highlight-reel takedown? You’re gonna make Coach cry. Or nominate you for sainthood.”
Within moments, the locker room opens to the press and reporters swarm me. Flashing bulbs, mics shoved in my face and recorders already rolling.