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)
As far as I’m concerned, if Coach is problem number one, setting the tone for the team, Anderson is problem number two, enacting Coach’s missives.
“I’ll have the chicken too,” Pacholek says, holding up a hand to get the waiter’s attention. He’s trying to insert himself and slow this runaway freight train. But this standoff has been coming since that first night at O’Neal’s. It’s not about Kipson. It’s about the whole team.
I’m changing things around here, which means I now hold a power Anderson mistakenly thinks I took from him. Newsflash: He never had real power because he treats this team like a frat, never taking anything seriously until it’s time to hit the ice. His influence has existed in a vacuum, a vacuum that I’m filling. I take it all seriously—practices, games, on the ice, off the ice, and most importantly, every single man sitting around this table.
I send text messages in the group chat, have conversations that go beyond “good game, bro,” and offer some guidance about our beloved sport, especially to the new guys who are acclimating to a whole different level of hockey. And the mere fact that this many teammates showed up tonight speaks to how well it’s working.
Unless they’re here to watch Anderson kick my ass. Admittedly, that’s a possibility too.
The waiter clears his throat and Anderson grunts in annoyance, breaking our staredown to order, “Steak, rare. Fries on the side.” The waiter arches a brow, as much of a tell as he can probably give in fine dining, before disappearing.
The momentary reprieve lets me do a quick check of the table. Most everyone is watching Anderson with wariness, like he’s the loose cannon they’re worried about. I don’t think they would jump to my defense if push came to shove, he’s been here too long for that, but they’re starting to see what I see in our goalie—immaturity, unpredictability, volatility. He’s the poster child for what’s wrong with the Blizzard.
Food ordered, Anderson returns his narrowed eyes to me, glaring angrily. He feels the change, too, both in the team and at the table. Unbothered, I let an evil smirk lift my lips, and give voice to the situation. “Feel that shift? Come over to the dark side, man. We’ve got snacks and braid each other’s hair on Sundays.” I shake my head a bit, letting my hair rise and fall back into place.
Should I poke him this way? Probably not. But it’s so easy and he takes the bait so readily, which only highlights his inability to emotionally regulate better than a toddler.
“You’re supposed to fix Kipson, not fuck the whole team up,” he bites out.
“I don’t need fixing,” Kipson snarls, sounding on the verge of grabbing Anderson by the neck and tossing him to the ground, Mortal Kombat style.
Finish him.
There’s a small piece of me that wants Kipson to do it. It would definitely make things easier without Anderson. Might even help Kipson get out of this mental state he’s in. I won’t deny that, but he’s a product of the team’s rotten roots, too, living up to the standards Coach sets. Which means, in theory, I should try to save him too. But maybe I could let Kipson at him first? Nothing serious, a few punches resulting in a little blood, ideally internal, or an unimportant bone break that won’t affect the season, like a couple of toes that could be buddy taped, but would be an annoying reminder with every step?
“You’ve been moping around for months, ruining the playoffs last season and barely holding it together this year. For what?” Anderson shoots back at Kipson, thumping his fist on the table. “Some bitch left you. Boo fucking hoo, man. And if the depression wasn’t bad enough, now this prick”—he points a thick finger at me—“has you wanting to fight everyone. If you’d kept your shit together like you were supposed to, he wouldn’t even be here!”
“I don’t want to fight everyone,” Kipson corrects, leaning forward. “Just you.”
His cold glare is locked on Anderson. I’d bet he can’t even see the rest of the guys at the table. He’s definitely not aware of the three guys between them who have scooted their chairs back to be at the ready if they actually go after one another. Only three because I’m on Kipson’s other side and I will not be stopping a damn thing if he goes after Anderson. I consider it well deserved.
“You know the rules—no distractions.”
“Sofia wasn’t a distraction. She was my Wife!” Kipson roars as he slams his palms to the table, making the water glasses and cutlery bounce. And oh, we’ve got the attention of everyone in the place now, from the staff to the well-dressed diners.
“Was being the operative word, there,” Anderson taunts, playing Russian roulette with his life.