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 points at me once across the table. “Exactly right.”
My eyes cut to Livia who is clearly enjoying the conversation.
“How’s the expansion roster coming together?” Richard continues. “That’s a unique challenge—building chemistry from scratch with men who all came from different systems.”
“It takes time,” I say neutrally. “Everyone has habits from their previous teams. Ways of reading plays, positioning instincts. You have to unlearn some of it and rebuild.”
“How long before it starts to feel like a unit rather than a collection of individuals?”
It’s a good question. A real one.
And I’m wholly unqualified to answer it since I’m not exactly leading the charge on functioning as a unit. I slide a glance at Livia because I’d bet money she’s pleased her father asked me such a question.
She’s looking at her plate with an expression that gives nothing away.
“Depends on the team,” I say, turning back to Richard. “Some groups click fast. Others take a full season.” I cut into the turkey. “We’re getting there.”
“Locke’s one of the best defensemen in the league,” Livia says.
The compliment catches me off guard.
Richard nods. “I saw the zone coverage numbers. Impressive, particularly for an expansion team still finding its legs.”
“You looked up the numbers?” Livia asks her father warmly.
“My daughter works for the team,” he says simply. “You invited a player to Thanksgiving dinner. Of course I looked up the numbers.”
Catherine has been listening quietly, collecting and storing the information. She refills my water glass without asking and nudges the rolls in my direction. “Take another,” she says. “You’re a big man. You need more than that.”
Livia puts her hand over her mouth.
“Thank you,” I say, taking another roll, because Catherine Cross doesn’t seem the type you argue with about food—or anything, really. I’m starting to understand where her daughter gets certain things from.
Livia sits across from me and eats and lets her parents do what I assume parents do with a guest in the home. But I have plenty of time in between answering questions to observe her.
She looks so at ease. Softer. The professional composure completely abandoned. She laughs at a story her father tells us—real and unguarded with her head tilting back slightly—and it makes her look ten times more beautiful.
“So, Locke,” Catherine says, cutting in on the two-way between me and Richard. “Where are you from?”
“Boston,” I say, my fork loaded with sweet potato casserole. “But I haven’t lived there in a long time.”
“Since you came into the league,” she says with a nod, as if that explains it.
“Since before then, actually. I played Major Junior, so I was living with a billet family when I was sixteen. It’s been quite a while since I lived in Boston.”
Sympathy shadows Catherine’s eyes. “Oh, that’s… well, I want to say awful, but you were clearly playing hockey and loving it. Must have been hard to leave home.”
She has no clue how easy it was to walk away from a set of parents who couldn’t spare me any time. I had more family-type memories living in complete strangers’ homes during a season than I do in all my years growing up in the Donovans’ Beacon Hill manse.
Still, this doesn’t seem like the time to spill, so I keep it vague. “Hockey was my world. It’s all I lived for.”
“Mmm,” Catherine hums affectionately, her eyes bright with a mom’s happiness for a child who lived his dream. “I bet they’re so proud of you though. Do they get to watch a lot of your games?”
The table doesn’t change. The candles don’t flicker. Everything stays exactly where it is. I pick up my water glass. “They’re not big hockey followers.”
I say it the way I’ve learned to say it—clean, factual, no invitation for follow-up. Just information delivered and closed.
Catherine’s expression shutters and the table goes quiet. There’s a small shift, the kind of unconscious movement people make when they want to respond but they’re not sure how.
Awkward.
Livia watches me and I can see a million questions in her eyes.
“Well,” Catherine says, clearly doing what she can to keep the table whole, “you’re following your dream of playing professional hockey and that’s all that matters.”
Richard raises his glass. “To the Wildfire’s season.”
I hadn’t realized my chest had gone tight until it releases, and I’m grateful that no one at this table decided to dive down the rabbit hole of my upbringing. I don’t bemoan having absent parents, and it’s certainly the least of my traumas, but I don’t like talking about it.
Everyone else raises their water glasses and we tap them at the center of the table.
“To the Wildfire,” Livia murmurs, and our eyes meet.
She’s not graciously letting the comment go. I can see she wants to know all about my childhood, but she can’t ask me. It’s not part of the bargain.
I take a sip of my water and the conversation moves on.