Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t think about Milligan at all. The Condors are going to the playoffs, and we’re gonna do our best to keep winning for our fans. The greatest fans in the whole bleep league!”
The reporter chuckled and sent the broadcast to the three sports analysts behind the desk in a studio somewhere in Atlanta.
And this was where I should have turned off the TV. I was no fucking rookie. I was well aware of the press’s habit of making heroes and villains on a whim.
In my early twenties, I was their darling. I could do no wrong. I was tough, I was quick, I was agile. The year I turned thirty, they began looking for cracks in my armor. And no, that wasn’t paranoia speaking. It was reality. You could be referred to as a seasoned pro one year, then inexplicably fall into the category of “nearing retirement” the next.
Riley Thoreau, an Elmwood coach who’d retired from the NHL a dozen or so years ago, had cautioned me to block out the noise.
“They’ll announce your final season after every boggled play, whether or not it was your fault. Roll with it, man. Show, don’t tell. They’ll make up their own stories to sell viewing time either way. Doesn’t matter if it’s true. The only thing that’s real is your game.”
Riley was right. But the days my game faltered sucked. I hated losing and having nothing but sore ribs and ten new stitches for my troubles.
What I hated even more was being compared to the one human on the planet I despised. And I guaranteed it was coming in three, two, one…
“Trinsky had a phenomenal game with multiple assists and a goal. He was a powerhouse on the ice and as he mentioned, Jake Milligan was slow,” the smarmy announcer commented in an almost bored tone.
His cohost nodded in agreement. “Milligan’s frustration was palpable. You could tell Trinsky and La Marche had broken through his legendary cool veneer, and that’s not something we’re used to seeing in Boston’s veteran. I know he’s only thirty-two, but is this the beginning of the end?”
My heart sank to my stomach. Turn it off, Jake. Turn it the fuck off.
“Let’s not get hasty,” a third host chided, slapping a hand on the circular desk they shared. “Milligan’s got a few years in him for sure.”
“Maybe, but look at Trinsky. They’re roughly the same age, but he’s playing better. We’ll have to see. The real question is…which team looks good enough to go all the way? My vote is Denver.”
“Denver all the way.”
“Denver, for sure. They’ve got Mellon and Trinsky and without a totally focused and healthy Milligan, Boston has problems.”
I changed the station and muted the sound, staring blankly at the wall behind the flat-screen. My body hurt, my head hurt, and all I could think was… Fuck.
Just…fuck.
Fuck the reporters, fuck the fucking Condors, and most of all, fuck Mason Trinsky.
2
TRINSKY
Game seven of the Stanley Cup.
We were tied two apiece, one minute and fifty seconds on the clock. The roof of the arena was rattling. Denver’s fans wanted this win as much as we did. Sure, Ontario was good, but we were better. One more lamplighter to seal the deal.
Denny glided along the perimeter, the puck glued to the edge of his stick. He was pure ice, no expression on his face. His focus was laser sharp as he signaled for me to shift. This was it.
I skated into the lane, took the puck to mid-rink, and passed it to Minorsk. I closed in, creating a screen while Denny moved in for the kill.
We had this. I could feel it. The Denver Condors were about to win the fucking Stanley Cup…again.
All we needed was for Minorsk to sling the puck to Mellon, who’d bury it for the fucking win. The crowd would go nuts, but we’d stay in the moment, playing keep away till the buzzer ran out.
I peeked at the clock. One minute, forty seconds, and…
And suddenly, time stopped.
I was on a cloud hovering like a ghost—here and a hundred percent present, yet blissfully above it all. How was this my life? How did I get here? Did I really belong, or was someone finally going to rat me out as an impostor?
I spotted Denny Mellon’s husband, Hank, sitting with NHL legends Vinnie Kiminski, Riley Thoreau, and their husbands, Nolan and JC. Denny’s best friend, Mary-Kate, was there too with a couple of the crew from Elmwood High. It was pretty freaking cool that so many people had made the trek from Vermont to support Denny. I couldn’t see Smitty, but I knew his high school coach had to be here too along with his husband, Bryson, and probably—
Jake.
Yep, there he was. Jake fucking Milligan.
Heat and the usual rush of animosity boiled under my skin, but I quickly let it go. Hey, I could afford to be magnanimous. I was seconds away from winning the cup, not Jake. Not that I wanted to lord it over the asshole, but—okay, maybe I did.