Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Second favorite?” Shepherd echoes, his brows slamming down in offense.
Hope shrugs. “He likes the Menaces, mostly because their jerseys are black with the tiniest bit of dark gray. He says it suits him better than neon green.”
“Neon? It’s Christmas green at best,” Shepherd argues, missing the point entirely because of course Ben’s favorite team would have black jerseys. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything but solid black, onstage or off.
“Pine? Or maybe dill-pickle green,” I suggest, looking around at the sea of Moose green-and-gold jerseys.
“Speaking of pickles—” Hope starts, but I’m not letting that sentence even get a hint of oxygen.
Instead I cut her off quickly, “Yeah, let’s get an order of fried pickles!” I shout it, sounding nearly ecstatic at the thought of the greasy snack that’s my sister’s favorite, not mine.
Hope’s smile is one-sided, because she knows exactly what pickle I thought she was going to mention. “That sounds delicious. I bet you could suck down a long, thick pickle all by yourself, right, Joy?”
I don’t smile. It’s more a baring of my teeth as I warn her to watch her step. Neither of us want the mess of Shepherd finding out I saw Dalton’s dick, though admittedly, me more than her. Even if Hope’s just fucking with me, calling him long and thick has my mind going places I don’t want to go, and I stare daggers at her.
Shepherd looks from Hope to me, his blue eyes going dark. “We’re not talking about pickles, are we?” At our poor imitations of innocence, he lifts his arms from our shoulders and takes a step back. “Nope, I’m good. No need for pickle convos here. I’m gonna go see if the guys need . . . something . . . anything.”
With that, he nearly sprints away from us, and I have to grudgingly admit that Hope’s a manic genius.
“Smooth, sis,” I tell her, sipping my beer. Hope isn’t the slightest bit insulted. In fact, I think she looks mighty proud of herself for scaring Shepherd off.
“Wanna dance and see if we can get into any more trouble?” she offers in a falsely innocent voice. “Show off a little double trouble?”
I gape at her in shock. “Who are you? And what have you done with my sweet, quiet, no-trouble sister?”
She laughs and pulls me back out to dance some more. And though I feel like there are eyes on me, every time I look around, no one seems to be paying me any attention. Not even Dalton, who is sitting on the far side of the room, looking decidedly sullen and angry considering the big win they had tonight. But thankfully, there are no more interruptions in our celebration.
Chapter 6
Dalton
We lost.
The fact boils in my veins. I can’t believe we lost to the fucking Ice Truckers. They’re known for “old-fashioned slap shot from the blue line and hold on to your nuts because it’s coming for your head at ninety-five miles an hour that you can see coming from a mile away” than complicated strategy or puck handling.
What makes the loss worse? It’s my fault.
The Truckers may not be able to pass for shit, and those laser beam slap shots have all the subtlety of a machine gun, but I fully expected that. They’ve played that way for years. What I also expected was to block them, but no matter how fast I reacted or what body part I sacrificed to the puck, I couldn’t keep the damn thing out of the net.
Final score: Ice Truckers: 3. Moose: 1.
Thank god for Shepherd tucking a sweet little wrist shot into the net during the second period so it wasn’t a complete shutout. But nobody is celebrating that tonight.
Nope, the whole team is silent, everyone’s eyes forward as Coach Wilson rips us a new one.
“What the fuck was that?” he shouts from the front of the bus, where he’s standing, holding on to the seats on either side of him while we cruise down the highway back toward Maple Creek. “It sure as shit wasn’t the team I’ve seen practicing on the ice every day for the last two months. Barlowe, Voughtman, Pierre . . . those Truckers were doing pirouettes around you, making you three look like clumsy bears on skates. Miles, Hanovich . . . did you decide to take a tea party break in the middle of the third period? You left Days for dead out there. And Days—”
I set my jaw tight and meet Coach’s eyes, ready to take my lumps.
“You were slow as molasses out there,” Coach growls. “Up the reflex drills or cardio or whatever you need to do so you can get to where the puck is. Or get off my ice, and I’ll get someone who can.”
Younger. He means he’ll get someone younger, and we both know it. Especially given the fact that my heir apparent is sitting four rows in front of me—Eric DeBoer. He’s twenty-three, fresh, hungry, and worst of all, talented as fuck. He needs me to get out of his way so he can have a chance, but the only way that’s happening is if I get the call to the NHL, not because I’m going out a has-been. I refuse to let that happen.