Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“BJ happened.” Rose sips her coffee.
“I need to check something.” I rush to the back room to look in my hockey bag. If I had enough time, I’d planned to get my skates sharpened this afternoon. I rummage through the contents and come up with only one skate. He was telling the truth.
I return to the front of the store, where Rose is back to looking at her phone.
“I think he might be holding my skate hostage.”
She pockets her phone. “Seems like something BJ would do. I can probably get it back for you if you don’t want to come to free skate, but I’m going, and it’s loads of fun. Half the time they use the first hour for a free skate, and if there are enough players, they have a game of pick-up after.”
“Really?” An hour of ice time and a game of pick-up for free. At the new arena.
Rose’s eyes are lit up like a kid at Christmas. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” It’s an opportunity I’m not sure I want to pass up. “What’s BJ’s deal? How do you know each other?”
She gives me a curious look. “Our families have been friends my whole life. He’s a relentless flirt, but a good guy.”
“So take all the nonsense about me being the woman of his dreams with a bucket of salt?” I mutter.
Rose shrugs. “Hard to say. BJ isn’t the type to throw around words if they don’t mean anything.”
“Huh.”
The bell over the door tinkles again, and a group of summer teens comes in. It gets busy after that, so I don’t have a whole lot of opportunity to ask Rose questions. I’m too focused on making fritters. It stays steady all the way through until the end of her shift at noon. We exchange phone numbers before she leaves, and she offers to pick me up if I’m serious about coming to this free skate.
I’m still on the fence as to whether it’s a good idea, but I’m leaning toward going. Free is hard to pass up.
3 IT’S A HARD-KNOCK LIFE
Winter
When my shift at Boones finishes, Tracey Lynn gives me a six-pack of fritters to take home. She’s aware that my family’s financial situation isn’t the best. Staying anonymous in a small town is tough, and while charity can be a hard pill to swallow, food is a gift I can’t and won’t say no to.
I strap my hockey bag to my bike and pedal to the laundromat. There’s a washing machine at the cabin, but it’s broken, and getting someone to look at it costs fifty bucks. So until I teach myself how to fix a washing machine, this is my plan. I’m used to that anyway.
As I empty the bag into the washing machine, I discover a hole in the bottom, which explains how I lost my skate this morning. In a way, I’m lucky BJ found it. Otherwise I’d have to use money from my secret tuition stash to buy a new pair.
It’s already closing in on five thirty by the time I get home. I have a message from my mom that she’s staying to work the dinner shift at the diner. She used to work at the one in Lake Geneva, back when we were living in the trailer park on the edge of town, but it’s too far to bike all the way there, so she works at Tom’s Diner in town now. She’ll be exhausted by the time she gets home. Last night she and my dad were arguing until well after midnight, and then I accidentally woke him up with the toaster oven this morning, so she ended and started her day with his bad mood. It’s not uncommon, but it still sucks.
I hang most of the laundry on the line, then head for the deck so I can drape the rest over the railing. The cabin is perched on a bluff, and the railing is the only thing between me and a two-story drop to the moss-covered rocks below. It’s wobbly in places, and most of it needs replacing, but it’s a huge step up from the trailer park where we sometimes have to live. Technically, I can move out if I want, since I’m nineteen, but my part-time job helps with bills my parents won’t be able to cover otherwise.
I do the dishes from this morning so the sink is clean, then make myself two peanut butter sandwiches, scarf them down, and make a third to take with me to the arena.
When everything else is taken care of, I hop into the shower to rinse off. It’s kind of pointless since I’ll get sweaty all over again on the way to the arena, but the novelty of having our own shower hasn’t worn off yet.
Even though a helmet and hockey gear don’t scream sexy, I rim my eyes with dark liner, throw on a coat of clear mascara, and rebraid my hair.