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)
After the game, the locker room is full of celebratory shouts. Even Howe and Brody are hugging as they sway to some remixed, fake-twang version of “Take That Puck and Shove It.”
“You ain’t scoring here no more, don’t stand in my way as I’m shooting on your goal, so take that puck and shove it. You ain’t a winner here no more.”
Yeah, we won, knocking the division-leading Torches down in the rankings and guaranteeing our matchup in the first playoff round. I don’t feel like celebrating, though. I feel like bodychecking a few more guys.
“Honey! How’s your finger?” one of the sports medicine guys shouts.
I dislocated my right pinkie finger when it caught on Cavanaugh’s sweater during a scuffle. It didn’t turn into a full fight because we couldn’t risk the fighting penalty in such a tight game, but getting your finger caught on someone’s gear and twisted out still sucks. But I popped it back into place before the next play started and it’s fine. Besides, I know the drill and have anti-inflammatories at home to take before bed tonight.
I hold my hand up in the air, curling and uncurling my hand. It’s the closest to an exam he’s gonna get from me. My bruised knuckles crunch like Rice Krispies cereal, but from across the room, the trainer can’t hear the gross noise. He dips his chin and writes on his clipboard. That’s what I am to him . . . a check mark on a list. A weapon to be aimed and fired. And that’s what I’ll do again tomorrow night.
I’ll take on the Torches the same way I did tonight—mercilessly, with minimal regard for penalties or my own safety.
“Get dressed,” Dom says, suddenly right beside me.
Frowning, I hold my arms out, highlighting that I’ve literally got my pants on and my shirt is in my hand.
“You and me, we’re going out.” He doesn’t give me a chance to argue or refuse. Pointing a finger at my chest, he declares, “And that wasn’t a fucking question. We’ve got shit to discuss.”
Fuck.
Maybe Penny told him after all.
What are we doing here of all places?
If Dominic wants to have a man-to-man chat about my misdeeds with his sister—which I fully expect to involve more fists than words—I wouldn’t expect it to be at a golf driving range, but here we are. I figured he’d lead me to his place or maybe mine if he’s feeling generous, so I could collapse into bed after he fucks my shit up.
I park beside him and get out, on high alert despite the unusual locale for a smackdown.
Inside, Dominic charms the hostess as she leads us to a bay far away from anyone else. I roll my eyes when she tells Dom there’s no need to reserve the two bays on either side of us for additional privacy because they’re happy to give us the space as “special guests.” Part of that is a Hawks privilege, the other is that they’re only open for another hour so it’s unlikely they’ll get a rush of guests this late. Either way, it works in our favor.
The manager comes over before we’ve even settled into our seats. “Hell of a game tonight, guys. We’re gonna do it again tomorrow, too, right?” He smiles one of those fake customer service grins, making it seem like he’s a Hawk, too, and we’re all in this together, kumbaya-style. If that’s the case, I’d like to see his knuckles. I bet they’re not nearly as swollen and bruised as mine are. “We can do anything you need. Just let me know. I’m Andrew.” He points at his name tag like we’ll remember that.
I’ve already forgotten. His name doesn’t matter when I’m about to lose my best friend.
“Thanks,” Dom tells him. “Can the kitchen do something high protein for us? Whatever chicken or beef and rice type thing they can put together. We don’t care what it tastes like. It’s fuel to us.”
Andrew looks offended at the idea that something his kitchen staff would make wouldn’t be delicious. “How about a spin on breakfast tacos? It’s not on our late-night menu, but for you we’ll make it happen. Chicken, eggs, grilled peppers, roasted potatoes, guacamole, salsa on flour tortillas?”
“You can skip the tortillas. Just pile all that shit in a bowl, and we’ll be good.” Andrew nods like he’s making a mental note of Dominic’s order. “And water. Just bring us the biggest pitcher you’ve got. We’ve gotta rehydrate.”
While Dom handles the pleasantries with the manager, I sit there sullenly, wishing we could get this show on the road, because something tells me the manager isn’t going to be quite as accommodating when Dom and I start throwing punches.
When Andrew leaves us alone, I’m ready. Well, as ready as I’m going to be.