Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
At thirty-two, I’m not the oldest rookie ever, but I’m up there.
I’m afraid if I don’t prove myself this season, I’ll end up back in the minors. Or, worse, that this will be it. The end. That after just three NHL games, my dream is dead in the water, and I’ll have nothing to show for it except a scar on my neck and a shoulder that aches when it rains.
But a conversation with my coach isn’t the place to voice any of those fears, so I force an upbeat note into my voice. “Gotcha. Will do, Coach. I’ll focus on coming back strong and let this roll off my back. I can’t control what people think about me, only how I respond to it, and I don’t have energy to spare for drama right now. I’ll lay low and let the social media team handle it unless you tell me otherwise.”
“Great plan,” he says, sounding pleased. “This is why we need you, Aaron. You’re a grown-up. We need more of those in the NHL. Hell, in the world.”
“Thanks, Rich,” I say.
“You’re welcome. All right, I’ll let you go and touch base if there’s anything you need to know. Otherwise, enjoy the time with your friends and family and know we’re all rooting for you.
I thank him again and end the call. Tossing my phone on the bed, I sit down heavily on the window seat. I’m tempted to reach for my laptop and dive further down the rabbit hole, but I don’t know if I can handle the hate right now. I’m already injured, not sleeping well, and dreading what the new scans might reveal tomorrow. If they say I need surgery, there goes my chance of rejoining the team before summer training.
Seeing how many people want to beat the shit out of me for the sin of getting fouled by their favorite bully might be more than I can take and maintain a healthy mindset.
I need to think good, healing thoughts, and keep my spirits up.
So, I put in a call to one of the most upbeat people I know. “Hey, baby sister,” I say when Nora answers. “Want to come have lunch with me and Gram at Melissa’s house? Gram and Slasher are bringing pot pies over at noon and I’m sure there will be plenty to share.”
“Rats, I have a supplier meeting at one,” she says. “But I can swing by after and bring you coffee and cupcakes around two-thirty or so? I feel terrible that I haven’t been able to gently hug you yet. You were sleeping when I stopped by Gram’s the morning after the accident, and I’ve been slammed with work. I picked the worst time to expand my business. The very worst.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “I haven’t been doing anything interesting anyway. Just napping and eating as much of Mel’s food as possible. But yeah, come over at two-thirty, and bring extra cupcakes. Mel and Chase might want one when they get back.”
Nora hums her agreement. “Yes. Absolutely. I’ll get the gourmet cupcakes from Whisk Me Away then. Mel doesn’t like the recipes they’re using at The Cupcake Factory since the new owners took over.”
“She’s fussy,” I say, with a smile.
“She is,” Nora says. “But I respect a woman who knows what she wants and won’t settle for less.”
I do, too, and I’m feeling pretty pleased that Mel’s warming up to me so quickly. The cocky part of me likes being on par with gourmet cupcakes.
I tell Nora I’ll see her soon and kill the rest of the morning reading a book on good habit building in bed. I pay the housekeeper just before noon and welcome Gram and Slasher for lunch as she’s pulling out of the subdivision. The pot pie is delicious, and the conversation flows easily. I really enjoy Slasher when he’s not behind closed doors with my grandmother. He’s a cool guy with a fascinating history.
We gossip about the new music venue in town and our least favorite sports teams until nearly two. By the time they leave, I have just enough time to get the dishes in the dishwasher before Nora is at the door with cupcakes and coffee.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she says, gently embracing me by the door. “You look like shit.”
“But still hot.”
“Well, of course,” she says. “You’re a Boudreaux. We’re gorgeous people.”
“Damn straight, we are.” I motion her in with a nod of my head. “Get inside, woman. It’s cold out there.”
“I no longer feel the cold,” she says, breezing past me and heading toward the kitchen table. “After Matty and I nearly froze to death at the treehouse Sunday night when the heat went out, normal cold no longer phases me. Remind me again why I’m madly in love with a man who likes spending so much time in the woods?”