Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Tomville blinks several times, and for a second, I think he’s going to argue with me. Instead, he comes back with, “You got a workout plan I can follow, or should I hit the strength coach up for that?”
“Try Coach first, but I’ll take a look at your plan if you want,” I reply, having no reason to trust the Blizzard’s strength and conditioning team so far. “Basically, make sure you pick up heavy weights every day, no excuses and no skips. Low reps only, none of that ‘sets of twenty’ toning crap.”
“Will do. Thanks, Dom.”
Two coachable rookies? The odds of this season being a complete clusterfuck are decreasing. Though they’ll be years in development to fully reach their potential. But we all start somewhere.
We finish the rest of our dinner with the two kids talking about their past hockey experience. I don’t bother sharing mine, because they could probably recite it as well as I could. By the time we leave, I think they feel a bit better about themselves and their new positions on the Blizzard.
I wish I could say the same.
Hanging out with those guys was a fun, momentary distraction that I greatly appreciate, but as I open the door to my home away from home, all I feel is empty inside, just like the house. I didn’t even decorate any of this shit, it’s as soulless as a hotel room.
I flop onto the couch, one foot on the coffee table and one on the floor as I look around. My suggestion to the guys was to handle their business and go to bed before tomorrow’s camp, but all I want to do is punch the closest wall.
Chapter 4
Briar
“How’re you holding up, honey?”
I can see that my son’s been crying, with tell-tale pink around his eyes and faint tear tracks on his freckled cheeks. If I could squash the other kids on his hockey team like bugs, I would . . . not that you should do that to our wonderful insect friends. They’re an important part of our ecosystem, even if they are weird and creepy sometimes.
His sniffle breaks my heart. “I’m fine. Connor’s right, I should’ve passed to him.”
Holding a hand up to cup my ear, I scrunch my nose in confusion. “What? It sounded like you said Connor was right, but”—I shake my head dramatically—“that can’t be, because you know better than to second-guess your own instincts based on what someone else tells you.” I keep my voice light and playful, but it’s a hard truth about Harley’s teammate, who acts like everyone’s boss and seeks to have the spotlight shine only on him.
“Mooom.” That single syllable has gotten longer and longer over the years. Soon, it’s gonna be more like a Siberian husky’s howl, except hopefully lower pitched.
“Harleyyyy,” I drawl out, mimicking his tone and turning it into a full-blown ambulance siren situation. He’s not amused and continues to stare blankly at me. More seriously, I remind him, “You had the puck. It was your responsibility to get it to the goal in the way you saw fit. That means working with your teammates if they have a better shot, but it also means trusting yourself to take the shot when it’s available.”
He frowns deeper than a little boy should be capable of. “I know, but I missed and Connor wouldn’t have.”
“Connor’s stats are better than yours by the teensiest, tiniest sliver of a margin.” I hold my finger and thumb up, no space between them. “He might’ve made it. You might’ve made it. Either of you could’ve missed. But he’s not the coach. He doesn’t decide what you should do. You do.” I tap his temple, reminding him of the supersmart brain beneath the mop of blond hair we really should get trimmed.
“Deciding’s hard.”
“Doesn’t get much easier as you get older,” I confide. “Sometimes I flip a coin, and in that flash of a moment when it’s in the air, I can feel what I hope it lands on, and by the time it does land, I already know what I should do. Maybe we could put a quarter in your pocket?”
He giggles the little boy laugh I will miss when it turns to a deep rumble one day. “I don’t have pockets in my uniform, Mom.”
“Oh, right. Maybe behind your ear?”
“Noooo.”
“Ooh, I got it! In your sock? But then we have to decide, left or right?” I grab his feet, which are still covered in stinky, sweaty hockey socks, lifting them as I examine each one for insight on which might be the better piggy bank for a coin.
“That tickles,” Harley laughs, squirming to get his feet free from my grasp. “No coins in my socks either.”
“Huh, guess you’ll have to make the decisions on your own then.” I give him a pointed look and he starts to smile. “Good. Let’s practice . . . chicken or beef for dinner?”