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)
Yeah, I’d been in his shoes a few times, and I knew it sucked to be a spectator when everything in you wanted to be on the ice.
He looked good. A golden boy with intense eyes, edgy energy, a shiny leather jacket, and—
What the fuck?
I tore my gaze away, scanning the stands. La Marche’s wife was doing her signature ear-piercing whistle, Minorsk’s kids were waving their arms and jumping like kangaroos, Collaran’s dad was holding a sign. Okay, fine. I’d admit, I was a teensy, tiny bit bummed I didn’t have a cheering section of my own.
I wished Eddie were here. I wished my mom could handle big lights and noise. It would have been nice to have people I cared about show up for me. I supposed I could count the girl I’d broken up with last month, who was probably in my seats taking selfies. Not the same, but hey, the fans loved me and that was more than enough.
’Cause let’s be real, this was everything I’d ever dreamed of.
This, right here, right now. The lights, the music, the voracious fans, and the clock ticking down the final moments to victory.
It was undefinable. The best damn thing ever.
Wait.
We were still tied, and Minorsk still had the damn puck. What was he doing? I glanced at Denny and winced. Shit. He had two defenders on him now. The play was fucked. I raised my stick and motioned for Minorsk to pass to me just as Ontario’s star forward swooped in, stole the puck, and raced to our goal on a breakaway.
Ontario scored.
Fifty seconds later, it was over.
We’d fucking lost.
Here’s the thing—I wasn’t a maudlin dude. No way. Not my style.
I brought the party, I brought the fun.
Fans could count on silly on-ice shenanigans and wild stories about me in the media. I was the guy who showed up in a flashy car, wearing a sparkly designer suit no one in their right mind would be caught dead in with a gorgeous model on my arm. You know the type—blond hair to her ass, eyelashes for days, and a smile that never reached her eyes.
Was that the real me? Well…I liked attention, but I understood that flash without substance could turn you into a joke, and I was no one’s fucking joke. I could be a clown as long as I controlled the narrative.
I didn’t know how to spin the narrative of our Stanley Cup loss. For some reason, I was having a hard time grappling with major disappointment. I was usually better at finding a silver lining, but damn, I felt really fucking blue.
I’d said all the right things to the press, and I’d been pretty tame…for me. Serious, even.
“We’re bummed. We wanted this for Denver, for our fans. We fought hard and it’s tough to come up short, but we’ll be back stronger than ever next season.”
That should have been it.
But the reporter nodded her head in solemn agreement and asked, “Is there anything you wished you could have done differently?”
Oh, fuck. What a loaded question.
Yeah, I wanted to know if Ontario had out-skated us or if they’d just gotten lucky. I wanted to know if I could have slowed the play. And I wanted to know why Minorsk hadn’t passed the fucking puck.
Of course, those tapes would be analyzed to death in the days ahead. And even though I was curious about Minorsk’s timing, I’d never throw a teammate under the bus. Besides, I hadn’t forgotten that my own head had been in the clouds, daydreaming about a win that hadn’t happened and…Jake Milligan.
I mean…what the actual fuck?
I’d never admit that in a million years. No way.
Not that it mattered. I knew the truth. And it weirded me out that I remembered Jake Milligan’s leather jacket and that I’d noticed that his hair was shorter, yet I honestly couldn’t recall the moment before they’d stripped the puck from us. I’d lost a precious nanosecond on the ice because of that asshole.
Mind blown.
It might sound totally bananas, but I swore somehow, some way, that it was Jake’s fault. Like the guy had pushed a pin into a homemade voodoo doll that looked a lot like yours truly.
Too wacky a theory to voice to a reporter on live TV. Then again, Jake was someone I would happily roll under a bus.
Don’t worry. I stuck to the standard company line. We’d done everything we could, and we were disappointed that it wasn’t enough. End of story.
Except…
I couldn’t stop thinking that Jake had fucked up my win.
Random niggling thoughts popped up in the shower or while I was making coffee or running on the treadmill. Was this a curse? Had Jake messed with my mojo on purpose? Was that even possible?
Illogical, paranoid, unreasonable…yeah, yeah, on some level, I knew I was guilty of assigning blame by association or some shit, but I could not let it go. It was as if I were being haunted by someone who was alive and well.