Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 92422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I don’t bother to deny it, because deep down I know he’s right.
I’m totally fucked.
Seeing her ass in the stands, wearing my jersey, only slams it home with more force until there’s not a single doubt in my mind.
The players from both teams vacate the ice as the lights are dimmed and the music gets cranked until it echoes throughout the arena and vibrates in my ears. The visiting team is announced and then it’s the Wildcats’ turn. The bright glare of the spotlight falls on each player as they skate to center ice to wait for their teammates.
Even though I can’t see the stands, I know that the fans are on their feet cheering. The place hums with pent-up energy just waiting for the opportunity to break loose. I might not be able to see Britt, but I know she’s there.
The heat of her gaze sears my flesh as if it were a physical caress.
Once the arena is illuminated, the first line takes their places. Wolf does a few final stretches before lowering his center of gravity and waiting for the puck to get dropped. It’s easy to see that the guy is in his zone.
A fresh burst of nerves explodes in the pit of my belly as I wait near the red center line. This is the first time since I’ve been playing hockey that it felt like they might eat me alive.
And it has everything to do with the girl watching me.
The one who’s now my wife.
My wife.
It’s a dizzying thought.
As soon as the puck gets dropped, Hayes fights for possession before passing it to me. The second the small black disc touches the end of my stick, I take off. My blades dig into the smooth surface as I race to the other side of the ice. When a defenseman swarms, I pass to Ford.
We’ve watched a shit ton of game film this week and know what a solid team the Eagles have this season and what to expect. It makes me realize that we’ll have to dig deep and fight hard if we’re going to dominate.
This win won’t be handed to us on a silver platter.
It’ll have to be wrestled from their hands.
Sweat trickles down the back of my neck during the second period as I race off the ice for a shift change and guzzle down water. Even though my attention is focused on the game, I’m still aware of Britt. I want her to see that I’m a difference maker when I’m out there.
I want her to wear my jersey with pride.
Toward the end of the third period, the score is tied 2-2. I glance at the clock. There’s only a few minutes left before the final buzzer rings.
I can tell from the expressions on my teammates’ faces that they’re gassed. It’s been a rough couple of hours.
But we’re all still out there, working our asses off.
We haven’t given up.
And we’re not about to.
We won’t stop until the final buzzer.
I might bitch and complain about how grueling practice can be, but it’s times like these that I’m glad Coach skates us until the younger guys are red-faced and puking, barely able to stand upright. There’s always a few who don’t come back after their freshman season because they weren’t prepared for this level of practice and play.
It takes dedication and work.
There are guys who think the new coach is a hardass who wants to make our lives miserable, but that’s not the case.
Well, maybe it is.
But there’s a method to his madness.
The harder you work during practice, the more conditioned you are for the games, the easier it is to dig deep and find just a little bit more to give. Instead of concentrating on the exhaustion attempting to suck you under, you draw on the mental fortitude and toughness it takes to get through five AM practices and two-a-days in the offseason.
Our old coach was good.
Really good.
But Coach Philips is better.
He’s drilled us into the ground and built us back up again.
I glance around.
And it’s worked.
As fatigued as these guys are, they have just a little bit more in the tank to give.
Will it be enough?
No idea.
But I wouldn’t bet against us.
Ryder slams an Eagles’ attackman into the boards and knocks the puck loose. The sound of the hit reverberates throughout the arena. Bridger scoops it up before passing it off to Ford, who drives toward the opponent’s net. Defensemen descend, and the puck goes flying. Fans jump to their feet, wanting to get a better view of the action that’s unfolding on the ice. The tension and excitement in the arena escalates until it turns suffocating.
From the bench, Coach bellows as Maverick knocks into a player and passes the black disc to me. As soon as it lands on the blade of my stick, my skates dig into the ice. My pulse quickens as my heartbeat pounds in my ears and I focus on the goal. Ford bodies up a player long enough for me to rip off a shot. Air gets clogged in my throat and time slows as I wait to see if it’ll go in or not.