Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
That’s the plan until a glove appears in my peripheral vision. I slowly turn to see who the hell dares to interrupt my mental prep.
Fucking Brody.
I lift a brow in question, and he moves his fist closer. “Come on, man, hit it. For luck.”
“You mean the way I hit your mom last night?” calls Howe. He mimes some ass-slapping to go with his hip thrusts as he grins devilishly at Brody. The two of them obviously haven’t gotten around to shaking hands and singing “Kumbaya” yet, but they won’t let it affect them on the ice. In the locker room, though? All bets are off.
I sigh but tap my fist to Brody’s in solidarity. He’s annoying, but he’s my teammate and I’ve got his back. He’d just better have mine and not get me into any unnecessary scuffles.
I chuckle to myself at the thought, because if there’s anything necessary in hockey, it’s fighting.
Finally, it’s time.
As we march closer to the rink, my heart thuds dully in my chest and the hallway gets colder. Eventually, I can hear the crowd getting louder and the announcers calling out stats for tonight’s game. Then I see the cheerleaders.
I do a quick search, having long ago memorized exactly where Penny stands in the lineup, and when I see her, the knot in my gut finally relaxes. I take a deeper breath than I have in what feels like forever. She looks different today, her hair curled and a full face of makeup. But mostly, the difference is in her smile. She always smiles when she’s cheering, like it makes her happy to the depths of her pretty soul, and she rarely smiles at me, only when she thinks she’s gotten one over on me.
Even now, as I pass, I see the edges of her lips waver like she doesn’t want to give me the gift of her encouragement, even though it’s her literal job to do so.
But she’s okay.
And now, so am I.
In the words of my teammate, “Let’s do this!”
The horn blares for the ending of the second period, and I’m soaked in sweat. We’re up one to the Beavers’ nothing, but Jack Off had to skate like a demon to get that point. I’ve already been in three mid-level serious scuffles, but nothing with lasting damage.
We reconvene in the locker room with a round of hoots and hollers, fist taps and chest bumps, celebrating the progress we’ve made so far and vowing to take the Beavers down, dam and all.
“Those Beavers are uglier than Brody’s mom, and I had to close my eyes when she sucked my dick.”
“Beav-ah, you make me wanna heav-ah. Huuurggghuh.”
There’s also some pointed comments about whether they shave their beavers, but before we can get too carried away, Coach motions us over for his version of a pep talk. “Good work out there so far, guys. Keep the pressure on goal. Sneak it in on the left corner. That’s Mack’s weaker side, and it looks like he’s got some groin tightness there tonight.”
Coach is an eagle-eyed observer and catches everything on the ice, for the Hawks and the opposing team. I haven’t noticed the Beavers’ goalie, Mack, looking any worse for wear, but if Coach sees it, it’s there. It might be just an inch or a tenth of a second, but it’s there.
Having said his piece, Coach goes into his office, where he’ll watch plays from the first two periods and make any further notes for the last one.
The rest of us have our own intermission routines to prevent our muscles from cooling down and tightening up. Me? I take off my skates and wiggle my toes, getting blood flow to the extremities, while basically inhaling a bag of sour apple gummy bears, washing down each bite with measured sips of Red Bull. Sugar and caffeine feel like the nectar of the gods mid-game, and the sourness keeps my mouth from going dry. All around me, guys are doing their own things—retaping their sticks, stripping out of their gear or leaving everything on, listening to music or hitting the trainer station, and everyone pees. If you’re not peeing mid-game, you’re dehydrated.
As the timer over the door ticks down, we simultaneously start getting geared back up. Coach reappears and leads us out without further advice, which means we’re doing something right. He’s not a yeller, but if we’re fucking up, he’ll always be the first to let us know.
Skating back onto the ice, my focus stays rink level. I don’t even hear the crowd at this point, keeping my mind on the last period and my job. But there’s still some intermission bullshit going on at the centerline. Internally, I grunt in annoyance but then realize that it’s a fan surrounded by four cheerleaders. Instinctively, I search for Penny and find her to the right side of the face-off circle, on my side of the ice, which means I can warm up in my space and still see her.