Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“He… was… obsessed.” Michael waves his hand. “Hours and hours, until the blades fell off his skates, and then he’d glue them back on and keep going.”
The hotel suite has a small balcony area with a fire. It flickers in the grate, the warm light dancing on Michael’s liquor bottle, my glass of juice, and Emma’s flushed cheeks. She’s tied her hair up, closing her eyes to let the warmth bathe her, but it’s like she’s tempting me. I’m hungry for her. It’s so bad, but I can hardly focus on what Michael’s saying.
“He sounds it,” Emma says, looking at her dad. “Sorry, you sound like you were obsessed.”
I nod. “It’s where I learned how to approach problems. Every stride on my skates was a lesson. There was feedback in every twitch of my muscle. It was a clean and simple world.”
Emma watches me. Every so often, her eyes flit, but mostly, they’re on mine, those bright, interested eyes. She’s so much younger than me, but it’s not like I’ve got huge amounts of experience. By choice. Am I already making excuses?
“If you wanted simple and clean, why not take up math or something?”
I smirk. “I needed to exercise my body, too. I needed to be as tired as any person could. That’s why I always pushed myself, every day, past failure. Sometimes, I’d have to claw my way across the ice. I could’ve died a few times, falling asleep in the snow.”
My voice has become dark. I’ve gone into too much detail about the past. It’s Emma’s acceptance, Michael’s presence.
“It’s funny, this stuff,” I say. “I’ve gone years without thinking about it. Even on the video chats, Michael.”
“Different in person, isn’t it?” Michael says.
“Don’t go falling asleep in the snow again, ’kay?” Emma says.
Michael laughs, and I can’t help but join in.
“Let me ask you something, old friend,” Michael says, standing, weaving from side to side. He raises his hands. He looks like one of those men on a street corner, selling or preaching. “Why, after, let’s say… at a reasonable estimate, ten hours of video chats, are you not calling me Michel?”
I grin and say in French, “I thought you might have forgotten your French in America.”
Michael narrows his eyes at me. “If Amélie were still here, she would hate me for being unable to answer that. Whatever you said.” He laughs wildly, then sits down. “I’m sorry. I think I’m very drunk.” I remember his sister, Amélie, and all the pain there.
“You’re on vacation,” I say. “Don’t sweat it. We can grab some lunch tomorrow.”
“Won’t you be busy?” Michael asks.
“Michel, not too busy for you.”
Michael nods and covers his mouth as if to conceal a burp. He waves a shaky hand at Emma. “Don’t you dare tell your mother about this.”
“Oh, I’ll tell her you were so drunk, Dad.”
He wags his finger at her as he walks around the table, clapping my arm like he used to. I want to grab hold of him and beg him not to leave me alone with his daughter. With the fire making her cheeks glow. She’s too beautiful for him to leave us alone together.
“I’m holding you to that offer of lunch, Logan. Text me tomorrow. I might be up earlier.”
“See you tomorrow,” I say.
“Do you need any help, Dad?”
“Oh, no. Just some sleep. I’ll dream of hockey.”
I almost wince with each footstep he takes away from us. When he opens the glass door, the scraping noise feels like it’s tearing across my mind. When he shuts it, I look up at the dark sky.
“What are you thinking about?” Emma asks after a pause.
I feel rude sitting here, not looking at her. She’s got her chin resting on her hands. The light dances in her eyes. There’s also something unsure about her, maybe the way she opens and closes her mouth. “The game. The mistakes I made.”
“It was a close game, Logan. Only three points.”
“I could’ve prevented several of their points. I was off my game.”
“Was it… seeing Dad, maybe?” she says softly.
I lean forward. My heart is beating far too hard, way harder than during the game. The fact I’m even noticing it means it’s pounding with absurd force. My muscles feel tight, too, pumped up like after a strength and conditioning workout.
“Why would you ask that?” I say.
She shrugs, causing her breasts to shift in that sparkling dress. “It’s the only thing that’s different. You’ve played here before.”
“I’ve had bad games here before, too.”
She raises her eyebrows, making her look playful and alert. As far as I know, she’s sober. This is just her natural magnetism. “Are you always this grumpy when you lose?”
“Yeah,” I tell her gruffly, “but the difference is, the mistakes are usually far more complicated—a higher level than the ones I made tonight. These were basic.”