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)
“Welcome to the shit show!” the chorus echoes.
“Thanks,” I tell them. Then I tilt my head and tease, “I think.”
Initial awkwardness handled, I work my way around the room, mingling and meeting a bunch of players and various team staff, including my new coach. I hold my hand out in greeting as I say, “Coach Boothe, nice to meet you.”
The Blizzard coach is in his late fifties, could probably bench press as much as some of the team guys, and has a suntan line around his eyes that tells me he spends a lot of time outdoors wearing sunglasses, probably golfing. But he’s no armchair analyst, I know his playing stats and he’s earned his reputation.
“Good to have you here, Lee. You were impressive last season. Hope to make good use of those skills this year too.” He flashes a smile, but it’s gone too quickly to be friendly. He’s a businessman at heart, and his business is hockey.
“Same,” I reply because agreeing seems to be the safest answer. I mean, I do want to play. Otherwise, I would’ve told both teams to fuck off. But hockey is my life. There’s nothing like flying across the ice, slipping through holes that no one else sees, and keeping our goalie from having to be target practice.
Coach Boothe lowers his voice, his chin dropping too. “I trust Leverson told you the deal?” I nod subtly, and Coach looks pointedly toward a man sitting alone at one of the tables. “Hope you’ve got some magic. Otherwise, this team is fucked and so are you.”
“No pressure, though, right?” I joke.
“Oh, make no mistake, there’s pressure.” With that, Coach drifts away, finding a group of what appears to be interns to talk to.
I sigh, my anger at the situation reigniting in my gut. But I might as well get this shit started.
It’s not the type of situation where I can walk right up to Kipson and lay my cards out with an “I hear your life sucks ass and I’m here to save you from yourself, so nice to meet you” type deal. I have to play it smarter than that. Instead, I work the room, getting closer and closer to my target. I’m not overly friendly with anyone, which isn’t that hard to do since I’m not happy to be here and a lot of these guys know it after my situation last season. But eventually, I’m in front of Kipson.
Mike Kipson is a monster of a hockey player, whose stats put him at six foot three and 225 to my six foot and 200 pounds of lean muscle. Those few inches and pounds make a world of difference, both on and off the ice. But right now, the man in front of me looks so hollow that I could probably knock him down with a playful slap to the shoulder.
“Hey, man,” I say, starting this rescue mission.
He barely lifts his eyes from where they’re locked on to his beer. “Lee.”
We’re not instantly trading friendship bracelets and braiding each other’s hair, but it’s a decent start for two assholes who are reasonably pissed at their lot in life at the moment.
“Looking forward to hitting the ice with you this season.” A white lie, but I think God will forgive me given the circumstances.
He sighs heavily, his lips settling into a deep frown. “Look, I know you and Mahoney are all buddy-buddy, but it’s not like that here. We’re not gonna be bros.”
Griffin Mahoney and I have been friends for years, and other than the pesky matter of gestation, we’re brothers, so of course Kipson and I aren’t going to suddenly have the same level of connection. “I don’t need another brother, so no worries there,” I inform him, eyes narrowed to watch every microexpression that crosses his face. What I see most is surprise, as if he fully expected me to want to be his new bestie. “All I need is for you to keep your off-ice shit off the ice. Think you can do that?”
Okay, so maybe I’m throwing my cards out a bit prematurely, but it happens to the best of us. Or so I hear. Besides, some people need a velvet glove, some need a swift kick in the ass. Hopefully Kipson’s the latter.
He huffs out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I can do that.”
I don’t believe him any more than he believes himself. “Good. Then we’ll be fine.”
Kipson picks up his beer, downs the whole thing in one swallow, and slams the empty glass back to the table. “Gonna hit the head.”
“Make sure you shake it off before you come back out.” I don’t mean his dick, but rather his mood, and he knows it.
“Fuck you, Lee.”
“Fuck you, Kipson.”
It’d seem like we’re already sworn enemies, but in the ways of guys, we’re about two weeks out from an after-practice beer and a month out from those friendship bracelets. But if he needs help moving into his postdivorce bachelor apartment, he can fuck off. I’m not letting him borrow my truck.