Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
“Right. Okay. Um…well, have fun.”
“Thanks. Talk to you later.”
I stared at the traffic light in a daze when he ended the connection. I wasn’t sure what to make of my world at the moment. Everything felt upside down. I set my sunglasses on my nose when the light turned green and cranked up the volume on a Beck classic. Somewhere in between the harsh notes of a screaming guitar, I remembered my dad’s advice. When in doubt, skate.
When I was a kid, I’d wanted to be an Olympic speed skater. No joke. Our neighbors back in Michigan owned the local rink. I had a standing invite to goof around on the ice…as long as there was an adult to supervise. Since my dad worked odd hours at the plant, he was usually the one to keep an eye on me while the Gorskis got the rink ready for after-school lessons and team practices.
I had vivid memories of being five years old and rushing to tie my skates as fast as possible to get out there before anyone marred the pristine ice. I could still hear my dad telling me not to forget my gloves as I ran on my blades, purposefully building momentum, then gliding across the glassy surface. Once I got going, I didn’t want to stop. I would skate circles around the beginning figure skaters, zipping forward and backward as I lost myself in the sheer joy of unfettered speed. I was fast, agile, and sure-footed. Thankfully, those were good qualities for a hockey player too.
I’d always liked hockey, but it became an obsession after a kid in my third grade class invited me to a Red Wings game. I loved the energy and the intense atmosphere. It was fast-paced and a little wicked. Okay, a lot wicked. I lost track of the number of fights we witnessed that night. The last one was the best—every member of both teams was on the ice, duking it out while the crowd went nuts. I wanted a piece of the action. I wanted to see my name flashing on the Jumbotron in a crowded arena. I wanted to be the next Sidney Crosby. No…the next Wayne Gretzky.
A few years later, my life went to hell. Dramatic, I know, but true. My parents divorced when I was thirteen. My mom moved to Long Beach, leaving Dad and hockey behind. Sure, they had hockey in Southern California, but joining a club team cost money my mom didn’t have until she met Harry. I lost two years on the ice to sports like volleyball and basketball that required nothing more than a ball and a friend. I met Elliot, so I couldn’t really complain. But then my mom married a rich old man, my dad died, and my world as I knew it ended. I lost everything. The only silver lining was that I got hockey back. And though I resented Harry and hated that he was in my life and my father wasn’t, I thought my dad might have been looking out for me somehow. It was up to me to make something of it.
Seven years later, my pro hockey dream wasn’t on track. Sure, I was fast, accurate, and I’d been told I had leadership skills. But I wasn’t special. And at this point, I’d be cool with knowing what the hell I was going to do when I graduated, I mused as I raced to catch up to Logan’s lame-ass drop pass.
“Oops.”
“What the hell?” I griped, driving the puck forward a few feet on the edge of my stick before passing it to my teammate.
Logan steamed toward the goal with purpose. Troy crouched low in the cage but kept his gaze on me as though anticipating another pass in my direction. He shifted to his right when Logan slid the puck to me. I closed the distance, drew back my stick at the last second, and shoveled it to Logan for the score.
“Woohoo!” Logan pumped his stick in the air in triumph. “Troy, my man, you fall for that one every fuckin’ time.”
I chuckled when Troy whipped his glove off to make a rude gesture, then tilted my head meaningfully at the group of kids entering the rink. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Troy. And maybe consider taking a coupla passing lessons with the Pee Wee League. You’re not flippin’ burgers out there. Do it like you mean it.”
“Hey, my bad. I don’t know my own strength sometimes. That’s why we’re here…hours before practice.” Logan waited a beat and added, “In July. Or did you get wind of Schultz and the scout?”
Troy and I turned to the stands and spotted our forward chatting with Coach Beltram and an older man behind the tall plexiglass barrier.
“When did that happen?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it must be recent. Schultz must have a big-time agent. That’s how Stanley got picked up by the Ducks last year,” Logan said.