Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 121734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
“Nice playing with you tonight, Griff.” Jesse Ray held up a fist as he skated by. He was the Grays’ current captain and also first-line left winger. I’d be first-line center soon, though there’d already been some crossover tonight since I’d chosen to stay on the ice during the penalty kills, which, shit, we’d gotten a lot of. My old team had spent a lot of time in the sin bin. That was just part of hockey, but we hadn’t done it as much as this team seemed to. Giving the other team all those power plays was stupid. Sometimes shit happened, but as many as tonight? Fucking Christ. Keep your head.
But, different day, different problem.
I tapped Ray’s fist and gave him a nod. “You too. I’m excited to play with you and Sunny.”
Joel Sun—or Sunny, as he was called on the ice—was the Grays’ first-line right winger. He heard my comment and gave me a quick grin. He seemed tired. We were all tired, because damn, this team was inefficient. There were better ways to play. Smarter moves.
But I was the new guy. Sure, my career pedigree gave me some power here—I wasn’t going to get hazed—but I was still just coming in. I needed to shut my trap on all my thoughts about this team. I’d only played one game with them. I’d loved their inefficiency when I’d been playing against them. They were usually an easy win, especially once playoffs came around, because by then this team had worn themselves out.
I wasn’t sure why. They had good bones—a good mix of veteran players with new talent coming up, and I’d help. I knew I would be an asset for them. Plus, their goalie was one of the best—his nickname was Brick for a reason. He was a goddamn wall in front of the goal. Nothing against Zoomie, my last team’s goalie, but he was just normal for the NHL. Brick wasn’t. He was a superstar.
I glanced over at Nick Bruge, a Grays enforcer. He got some heat around the league because he liked to skate with his helmet off as much as possible, letting those long locks of his fly. It was a running joke. Girls got off on putting videos of him up on social media. Some called him a show pony, saying he liked to be the enforcer because it got him attention. I didn’t know him, and I’d never gotten that read on the ice, but I’d been on the other end of his fists a couple times. He could hit when he wanted to. Once the fight was called, though, he was cool. He didn’t do a lot of extra chirping.
Right now he was sitting by Sun’s locker, elbows on his knees, going through his phone.
I grimaced. That made me think about my own phone. I’d silenced it, but it kept lighting up with notification after notification. I hated social media. A girl I’d banged a couple times was good at it, though, and it turned out we were better as friends, so she handled most of my social media now. She was back in New York, so that meant I’d either need to do my social media myself or find someone new.
“Griffin.” One of the coaches stepped into our locker area. He motioned behind him. “You’re on press. Bruge. Ray. You too, after Griff.”
As he left, Brick came in. “Who’s the chick Coach is talking to?”
More than a few heads lifted.
“What do you mean?” Sunny asked.
Brick pointed out the door. “Benoit’s introducing her to the whole coaching staff. Looks like she’s someone, you know? Joining the team or something.” He turned to me. “Unless she’s with you? Your agent or manager?”
I shook my head. “Nope. My agent’s a dude.”
“Is she hot?” one of the younger guys asked.
A few others laughed.
Brick went to his station and began stripping down. “I am a happily married man, but if I weren’t…” He paused for effect.
Some of the guys leaned forward.
Brick smirked. “I’d shoot my shot with her.”
“Damn,” someone hollered. “Brick never turns horndog.”
Another wolf-whistled.
A few laughed.
“Knock it off.” Bruge’s tone was sharp.
The room quieted.
“That’s unprofessional and inappropriate,” he added. “You guys know better.” And with that, he hunched back over his phone.
“Griff.”
The same assistant coach was back in the doorway. He frowned at me, his tie tossed over his shoulder and some of his hair messed up.
I jerked forward. “Sorry.”
Still in my jersey, I followed as he led me toward the press room. As we went past the coaching staff offices, I glanced in and almost stopped short.
Coach Hines was talking to a woman, alongside Mal Benoit, a representative for the team’s owners.
Brick was right. She didn’t seem like press. Coach was locked in and studying her.
She held herself apart from them, dressed in black pants and a buttoned-up black blazer. She was maybe five eight, a little taller than most women. She wasn’t skinny—a lot of women were so thin, they were like twigs waiting to be snapped—but she wasn’t big either. She was just strong. Firm. I knew, even from this distance, that I could wrap my arm around one of her legs and find straight muscle. Power.