Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
He’s going to be good at this, I think. If he can stay out of his own way.
We’re walking out of the Blue Line together, already having scheduled an evaluation, when I see him.
Locke is coming through the entrance from the east corridor, fresh from a workout and shower. He’s a hockey god with that dark blond hair still damp at the ends, gray T-shirt, black track pants, and a posture that’s broadcasting the universal signal for Don’t approach me.
“I’ll see you next week, okay?” I tell Arch, which releases him.
He lifts a hand over his shoulder, already moving away. “Sounds good, Doc.”
I let the title pass, although I don’t like to be called by it. It’s true I have my PhD, but I find that players are more open to talking if I’m just Livia.
I step into Locke’s path and he stops short. Those chilly blue eyes come down to me with an expression that is impressively unwelcoming.
“Good morning,” I say brightly, then glance at my watch. “Well, almost on its way to afternoon. Good workout?”
“Fine.”
“Oh, come on now, Locke. You and I are old friends now. We shared cheese and wine, came to a mutual understanding. And you’re treating me like a bomb about to explode.”
“That’s an image,” he says dryly.
I suppress a laugh and glance past him into the Blue Line. It’s starting to fill for lunch—a cluster of players at a round table near the chef line, three of them deep in conversation, an open chair angled toward the group.
I look back at Locke and toss my thumb. “Look at that… a group of your teammates all sitting together.”
He follows my gaze. Looks back at me. “I can see that.”
“There’s an open seat.”
“I just want to eat.”
“I know.” I let that hang for half a second, even sounding sympathetic to his dilemma. “But you look like a multitasker. I bet you can eat and sit with them at the same time and not even trip over your own feet. Human beings have been doing it for centuries.”
His lips twitch and it seems like it’s almost amusement and then isn’t. “I don’t have anything to say to them.”
“You don’t have to say anything. You just have to sit there.” I resettle my bag on my shoulder. “That’s the arrangement, Locke. Remember?”
He looks at the table again. I can see him doing the internal calculation—weighing the discomfort of the table against whatever I’ll have to say if he walks to a solo seat in the corner.
“This is the worst part of being a grown-up,” I tell him.
His eyes come back to me.
“Having to do things you don’t want to do,” I say. “It never stops being annoying, but you do get better at it. Oh, and don’t forget the Thanksgiving party at Miller Parks’s house next week.”
Irritation flashes in his eyes. “I know.”
I pat his arm once, brief and businesslike, and maybe a little patronizing, and then I walk past him toward the exit.
I don’t check to see if he sits down with his teammates.
That’s intentional.
He needs to do it because he said he would, not because I’m watching.
Chapter 11
Locke
The New York Vipers are a physical team and their home crowd is so loud, I sometimes can’t hear my teammates calling out to me. The Vipers have been making this game personal since the first puck drop.
That’s not unusual. Physical teams are physical because their coaches build them that way, because it works, because wearing down the other team over sixty minutes is a legitimate strategy and I respect it even when I’m on the receiving end of it. What I don’t respect is the running commentary that’s been coming from their defensive corps all night—the kind of chirping that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with getting inside someone’s head.
Zane Nolan has been at it since warm-ups. I clocked him then and filed him away—big, rangy, the kind of defenseman who plays right at the edge of what the officials will call. He’s good. I’ll give him that. Good enough that he doesn’t need to play dirty, which means playing dirty is a choice.
I know about choices like that.
We’re about five minutes into the second period and I’ve got the puck behind our net. Rome Davies, our other first line defenseman, runs interference for me on my left, the Vipers forecheck pressing hard. I move it up the wall, feel the play develop, start transitioning—and that’s when Nolan’s stick comes up.
It catches me on the bottom of my chin. No clue if it was deliberate or accidental, because I didn’t see it coming. White light, immediate, and blood pouring from the gash before I’ve fully registered what’s happened.
The whistle blows and the ref calls a penalty against Nolan, but Rome takes issue with his carelessness. There’s a reason the league has a penalty against high sticks, regardless if it’s intentional or inadvertent, and it’s because serious injury can occur. As such, all players are required to keep the sticks below shoulder level or the height of the goalie net’s crossbar.