Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
I pick up speed. Find my balance. I don’t have a toe pick because I’m wearing hockey skates, but this jump doesn’t need to kick off the pick. I enter on a turn, gaining momentum as I take off from the edge of my skate and rotate in the air.
The landing is atrocious. My body isn’t properly aligned. I also overrotate, but somehow manage to save myself from falling on my face. I wince at my total lack of grace.
“Gigi! What the hell are you doing? You trying to break your ankle out there?”
I turn toward the plexiglass, where my father stands about twenty feet away, frowning deeply at me. He’s wearing a baseball cap and T-shirt with the camp logo on it, a whistle around his neck and foam coffee cup in one hand.
“Sorry, Dad,” I call out, sheepish. “I was just messing around.”
I hear a choked noise. Ryder sidles up to me, those blue eyes darkening.
I tip my head to flash him an innocent smile. “What?”
“Dad?” he growls under his breath. “You’re Garrett Graham’s kid?”
I can’t help laughing at his indignation. “Not only that, but I’m helping with your shooting drills today.”
His eyes narrow. “You play hockey?”
I reach over to pat his arm. “Don’t worry, prom king, I’ll go easy on you.”
HOCKEY KINGS TRANSCRIPT
ORIGINAL AIR DATE: 07/28
© THE SPORTS BROADCAST CORPORATION
JAKE CONNELLY: SPEAKING OF UNMITIGATED DISASTERS, I GUESS this is a perfect segue to our next segment. Massive news coming out of the college hockey world: the Briar/Eastwood merger. Talking about your alma mater here, G.
GARRETT GRAHAM: My kid goes there too. Keeping it in the family, you know?
CONNELLY: On a scale of one to ten—one being catastrophe and ten being the apocalypse—how bad is this?
GRAHAM: Well. It’s not great.
CONNELLY: I believe we call that an understatement.
GRAHAM: I mean, yes. But let’s unpack this. Setting aside the fact that it’s unprecedented—two D1 men’s ice hockey programs merging into one? Unheard of. But I suppose there could be some advantages. Chad Jensen is looking at a superteam here. I mean, Colson and Ryder on one roster? Not to mention Demaine, Larsen, and Lindley? With Kurth in the crease? Tell me how this team isn’t unstoppable.
CONNELLY: On paper, absolutely. And I’m the first person to give credit where credit’s due. Chad Jensen is the most decorated coach in college hockey. Twelve Frozen Four forays and seven wins during his tenure at Briar. He holds the record for championship wins—
GRAHAM: Does your father-in-law pay you to be his hype man? Or you do it for free to score approval points?
CONNELLY: Says the man who won three of those seven championships under Jensen.
GRAHAM: Yeah, all right. So we’re both biased. All jokes aside, Jensen is a miracle worker, but even he can’t erase decades of bitter rivalry and hostility. Briar and Eastwood have battled it out in their conference for years. And suddenly these boys are expected to play nice?
CONNELLY: He’s got a tough job ahead of him, that’s for sure. But like you said, if they manage to make it work? Come together as one team? We could be seeing some magic happen.
GRAHAM: Either that, or these guys are going to kill each other.
CONNELLY: Guess we’re about to find out.
CHAPTER ONE
GIGI
Slutty bad-boy dick magic
A HOCKEY PLAYER ISN’T JUST SOMEONE WHO PLAYS HOCKEY.
Someone who plays hockey shows up at the rink an hour before a game, throws their skates on, pounds out three periods, changes back into their street clothes, and scampers on home.
A hockey player lives and breathes hockey. We’re always training. We pour our time into it. We show up two hours before practice to hone our game. Mental, physical, and emotional. We strengthen, condition, push our bodies to their limits. We dedicate our lives to the sport.
Playing at a collegiate level requires a staggering commitment, but it’s a challenge I’ve always been eager to meet.
A week before classes start at Briar University, I’m back to my usual early-morning routine. The offseason is great because it lets me spend more time with friends and family, sleep late, indulge in junk food, but I always welcome the start of a new season. I feel lost without my sport.
This morning I’m running drills in one of the two rinks at Briar’s performance center. Just a simple shooting exercise where I accelerate on a turn and slap the puck at the net, and while I chide myself every time I miss, there’s nothing like the sound of a puck striking the boards in an empty arena.
I keep at it for about an hour, until I notice Coach Adley by the home bench gesturing at me. I’m sweating through my practice jersey as I skate toward him.
One corner of his mouth quirks up. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I slide my gloves off. “Says who?”
“Says the NCAA rules regarding offseason practices.”