Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 81745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Never in a million years did I think I would end up playing in the NHL. Did I want it? Yes. Did I think it was possible? Nope. I played hockey like any other kid in Canada. I was good, but I wasn’t great. I started my junior year in the low category, but something just clicked into place that year, and I moved up to the higher level.
The coach of that team took a liking to me, and he introduced me to one of the scouts he knew. I was drafted one hundred and twenty-ninth overall to Chicago. It was exciting, but I had to be realistic. The chances that I was actually going to play for them were slim to none. So I went hard at school and graduated with a degree in economics and mathematics. Something that only got mentioned when I was on the cover of GQ one year. I got called up one game and, let me tell you, playing your first game in the NHL is a feeling you will never ever forget. The fans on their feet, cheering for the team. The rush of the game is so much faster than you can ever imagine, and I made the best of it. I went on the ice and skated my fastest, passed smartly, and when the third period came around, I scored the game-winning goal.
From that day on, I was on the ice with them, but when the summer came around, they traded me to Dallas. I was shocked and confused, but I was excited for the start. Now I’ve been here for eight years, and I’m one of the oldest ones on the team. I shake my head, laughing. Old my ass.
Pulling up to the arena, I park in my designated spot. I climb out of my car and then grab my phone to text Becca, my agent, and tell her that I’m here. Then I take a picture for my Instagram.
The picture is of me smiling, and the caption is:
This could be all yours. Going once, going twice.
Putting my phone away, I walk into the arena and see all the changes they made in order to get us to party here. The arena has been transformed into a ballroom with a huge black stage at the back of the ice. Seeing all the round tables situated in front of it makes it feel weird that I played on this ice yesterday. The tables are covered in white tablecloths with crystal standing chandeliers. People mingle as waiters and waitresses pass out food and champagne. I spot the bar right away and start my way there when I’m stopped by a couple of fans who are attending. I smile and pose for a picture and then finally bump into Manning on my way to the bar.
“Look at you, Mr. GQ,” Manning, my best friend and captain of the team, jokes as he slaps my shoulder. He’s been calling me that ever since I was on the cover six years ago. “You look dapper.” I shake my head. He’s the only man who stands six feet six and is built like an ox who can use the word dapper.
“We are wearing the same fucking suit.” I point at him, shaking my head. “Let's take a picture together and put it on Instagram so we can do a poll on who wears it better.” I slide my phone out, and he pushes me away.
“I don’t do that shit.” He’s the only one who refuses to take part in social media. However, he’s the first to help out or donate his time. “It’s enough I have to put up with the pictures tonight from the press. I don’t need you adding to it.”
“I’ll take a club soda,” I tell the bartender, “with lime.” Looking over at Manning, who puts his hands in his pockets, I see the vein in his head start to pulse. When I see what he’s looking at, I laugh. His wife is the social butterfly. She is in the middle of everything, schmoozing and flirting. “Whatever, man. You get to take her home tonight.”
Manning looks around before he talks. “Don’t remind me.” He brings his whiskey to his lips. To the outside world, they are a perfect couple, but those who know him, know he’s living in hell. I don’t know when it happened, but she might be the devil. “She threatened to post on Instagram and actually created an account for me.”
“Did you tell Candace? She’d be so pissed if you didn’t become one of her clients,” I say to him. “Don’t look now,” I tell him, seeing Candace and her boyfriend, Ralph, walking toward us.
“Boys,” Ralph says when he gets close enough. He is quieter than some of our other teammates. He’s fierce on the ice, but no one would call him the life of the party.