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)
“Fucker.”
But all is forgiven when the rest of the guys try it. It even turns into a taste test competition—chicken versus carnitas versus steak. Personally, I think they’re all winners.
Even as we all goof off, Kipson stays mostly quiet, watching it all play out in front of him like we’re a show he’s tuned in to but not a part of. But eventually, narrowed eyes locked on me, he spits out, “What are you doing?”
Shoveling another bite—of my own chicken this time—into my mouth, I ask, “What?”
He tilts his head, glare going even colder. “Don’t act innocent. What game are you playing?”
Okay, we’re doing this, I guess.
I set my fork down, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and turn off my Good-Natured Guy persona in favor of coldly glaring right back. “Eating dinner with my teammates before a game.” He’s not buying it. Not that I’m doing much to sell the idea that this is a no-big-deal meal out between friends. “Tell me, what do you usually do the night before a game, especially the season opener? Where do you think the rest of the team is tonight? What are they doing?”
“Not singing ‘Kumbaya’ with assholes they barely know,” he answers.
Rodney sits back in his chair, hurt. Tomville takes a too-big bite, angry. Pacholek sighs.
This fight doesn’t involve them. Well, it does in a larger way, but they have enough sense to let Kipson and me do our dick-measuring without interference.
“That’s the bullshit I’m talking about,” I tell him. “The Hawks aren’t perfect by any means. We’d fight and give each other shit like it was our jobs. We even had a guy who helicoptered his dick in the locker room so many times we started calling him Chopper. But any one of those guys? I’d show up for them in a heartbeat and they’d do the same for me. I don’t get the sense that’s how the Blizzard operates.” I pause for a moment, giving him a chance to argue, but I’m right and we both know it. “But it could be.”
Taking a deep breath, I launch into my spiel, not just for Kipson but for everyone. “Look, player for player, I see y’all on the ice. This is the most skilled team, individually, that I’ve ever played on. I saw that last year, too, in the Cup Finals. But that’s the problem. You play as six individuals out there. We beat your ass because we played as a team. A team needs a leader, a fucking captain. You’re the one with a C on your shoulder, Mike. So act like one.”
I’m basically throwing not only my hand on the table, but the whole fifty-two-card deck.
“Fuck you,” he snarls. He crosses his arms over his chest in classic defensive posturing.
I keep my attention locked on Kipson as I say, “Rodney, anybody on the team asked you shit about where you came from, what your experience is, if you got a place to stay, or anything else?”
He huffs out a mirthless laugh. “No. Well, you, but other than that, no.”
Kipson rolls his eyes.
“How about you, Tomville? Anybody but Coach know you were an enforcer that took out four players in a single game and were the reason your team won your conference championship and got them to the Frozen Four?”
“Nope,” he answers, shaking his head.
“Damn, kid,” Pacholek says, impressed. He holds a fist up and Tomville bumps it with a dawning grin.
“That right there is why I’m doing this,” I inform Kipson. “What happened to you sucks. So yeah, Captain, being thrown off your rocker is understandable. But it isn’t a singular issue. This whole team needs to learn how to be a fucking team.”
“And you think you’re gonna teach us?” he snaps.
“I don’t want to be captain,” I say preemptively, cutting that concern off at the knees. “But are you gonna do it? Be my guest,” I invite, throwing an arm wide. “Maybe it’d give you something to do other than cry into your pillow at night.”
“Fuck you.”
He says that every time I make a valid point that he can’t counter. Still, I’m right on the edge of going too far, but that’s where I need to go if I want Kipson to wake up to what’s happening around him.
“Do you want to know what Anderson told me that night at O’Neal’s?”
He presses his lips together, refusing to say yes.
“He was celebrating that your wife left you. His exact words were ‘thank fuck’ that she’s gone, and Sabine declared the Blizzard a ‘clean house.’ Apparently, the team likes to keep things casual only. Anything else is a distraction. Sound familiar?”
It’s the first time Kipson doesn’t only hear me, but actually listens. Furious, he turns to Pacholek and demands, “Anderson and Sabine said that shit?”
“Uh—”
He squeezes his fork so hard, the plastic snaps in half between his fingers. “I’m gonna kill them.”