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)
Especially when I’m feeling too raw and vulnerable after the forced interaction with Tyler today and I’m worried if Harley is going to be okay all weekend. Tyler will make sure he’s safe and fed, stuff like that, but emotionally? He’s always a bit of a wreck after spending so much time in Tyler’s toxic cesspool of influence.
He’s busy. Sorry.
I leave it at that and so does Dominic. And I only glare at my phone a few dozen times after that, wishing it would ding again and his Hockey Coach label would flash on my screen.
I’m a mess of inconsistencies, both wanting him to leave me alone and contrarily wanting him to ask if I’m busy too. But he annoyingly respects my no.
Chapter 7
Dominic
Practice sucks. It’s familiar in that it’s the same drills and plays I’ve done thousands of times since I was a kid, but it’s also unfamiliar in that I don’t have the same trust in my teammates that I did with the Hawks. I’m not opposed to newness—as a pro there’s fresh faces on the team every year. I’m just annoyed with assholes, and the Blizzard has more than its fair share as far as I can tell, especially now that we’re all practicing together. Not just rookies and newbies, but the entire bench.
To be fair, I think they feel the same way about me—that I’m an asshole, that I’m annoying, and that they’d be better off without me. I know Kipson does. We’re still in the stage where he’s ignoring my existence and in denial that there’s a problem, despite there being a very obvious one. The man plays angry, but in a self-destructive way that’s going to fuck us come the season starting.
The only thing that doesn’t suck about this new gig is Briar. And Harley.
She blew me off over the weekend, which only made me more surprised when she reached out today, saying Harley was talking about me nonstop and asking if there was any way I might have a few more minutes for him. Obviously, I said yes immediately.
Practice with him is an entirely different thing. I enjoy the time with the kid, who listens and works hard, and I especially enjoy the time with his mom, getting to know more about the woman who smiles at everything and makes me laugh at seemingly nothing. And who is also currently watching us on the ice so I should get back to it.
“Alright, touchpoint one,” I say, pointing at a cone, “then two, three, four.” I indicate each spot as Harley follows the path I’m setting. “In the net, right corner.” I’m working with Harley on scoring today, specifically aiming for small targets inside the net. It’ll increase the spaces he sees during games, so he won’t only search for center shots, which get rarer the older the players get.
“Got it,” Harley tells me with a nod of certainty.
I move back, keeping a close eye on him. The first pass is a bit slow, but as he gets more confident in the pattern, his speed increases, as does his aim. I let him run it ten times before skating back over. “Now, reverse,” I say with a diabolical grin. “Your body’s using muscle memory, so we challenge it in a new way. One, two, three, four, left corner.”
He looks unsure again, but goes for it without question. I let him run the drill that direction ten times too.
“Let’s put them together. First drill, right corner. When you skate back to start, the puck will be waiting for you to do the second drill to the left corner. Keep track,” I tell him, tapping my temple with the butt of my stick. “There’s no autopilot here.”
I expect him to be hesitant at first. It’s not a complicated pattern, but it requires thinking and then moving. Slowly but surely, he gets faster and faster. His aim falters a bit as his speed increases, but after quite a few runs, he’s both fast and accurate . . . and entirely out of breath.
“Great job. Quick water break.”
He nods and beelines to Briar, who is holding his water bottle out. I pick up the cones before following. “That was rough, but you handled it like a pro,” I tell Harley and he beams. “Let me know when you’re ready for more.”
“Let’s go,” Harley says excitedly, shoving the bottle back to his mother and fixing his helmet, which had gone a little off-center with the gulps he was swallowing.
Briar’s brows lift. “We don’t want to take up your whole evening. It’s okay if you need to go.”
“Mooom.”
We’ve been here for almost an hour and it’s a school night, but there’s one last piece to this drill I’d like Harley to do. “We’ll make it fast,” I promise, giving the kid a chin nod of get out there before she stops us. Thankfully, he gets the message and skates away, heading back to center ice as Briar gives me a trademarked mom glare of disappointment for encouraging him to semidisobey. But I can also see the smile trying to lift her lips.