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)
I grit my teeth, keeping my face coldly neutral and swallowing the words I’d like to throw back at Coach. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s not wrong.
I felt good before the game, was excited about the matchup and confident we’d win, but somewhere around puckdrop, I felt like I’d missed something vital. I spent half the first period doing mental checks of what I might’ve forgotten. My nutrition and hydration were on point, and I’d followed my typical routine, slamming half a 5-hour energy and pissing before getting dressed as usual. I completed my pregame stretches and warm-ups with the team and my own goalie-specific ones, before doing my meditation and visualization exercises while listening to my curated playlist on my headphones. I had my lucky socks on and the laces of my skates were triple knotted and tucked, my protective gear was all in place, and my stick was inspected and freshly taped. I’d tapped the net, four times on the right and three on the left, and knocked my helmet against the top bar, becoming one with my territory. There was nothing I missed, but the niggling sense of forgetting something bugged me to the point of distraction.
And that’s when the Ice Truckers ripped one of their classic slap shots right by my stick-side shoulder, scoring their first goal.
That had been a wake-up call, but it was too late. They’d tasted Moose blood and were vicious, slamming the guys into the boards and throwing hands. Three times, any attempt at a Moose comeback was halted by dropping gloves and knuckling up. It felt like a drunk Saturday night bar brawl out there.
Coach keeps going, nitpicking and replaying every instance where we screwed up before finally turning a corner. “I expect better of you guys. I know you’re capable of it, but what you do in practice only matters if you can perform during games. Heard?”
“Heard,” a chorus of voices answers, and with a disappointed shake of his head, Coach sits down and immediately pulls out his tablet to rewatch the game, looking for more detailed nuances of where we fucked up. We’ll get that individual report in one-on-ones with him over the next day or two. We don’t have long, we’ve got another game this week.
I can’t wait, I think, already dreading it more than a simultaneous root canal and prostate exam.
I respect the hell out of Coach Wilson and would bleed myself if he asked me to, but taking it on the chin while he rakes you over the coals isn’t how I’d choose to spend an afternoon. Especially when, by the time he wants to do that, I’ll have already watched the video of tonight’s game a half dozen times and berated myself more than he ever would.
I do that after every game, win or lose. I like to scrutinize myself critically, see where I can improve or what I did well, but also, I like to focus on the other players, observe them for tells, understand how the plays progress, and decipher how I might better defend against them the next time we meet on the ice.
Sighing heavily, I let my head fall back to the seat and stare at the ceiling of the bus. In my mind’s eye, I’m already rewatching the game.
When I mentally get to the dirty shot in the first period where one Ice Trucker pinned Shepherd against the wall just before a second came in with a vicious hip check that should have been a penalty if not for some hometown refereeing, I wince involuntarily. They went at it like it was personal. Hell, maybe it was.
Shep’s sitting across the aisle from me, eyes locked on his phone. “Hey. You sleep with Green’s sister?” I ask him quietly. “Mom? Wife? Because that shit looked like a UFC fight.”
He lifts his chin, showing me the purple bruising that’s already blooming around his left eye. Keep your stick low my ass. “Not that I’m aware of, though I probably should’ve asked that chick at the bar what her last name was. Not sure I would’ve understood her with my cock down her throat, though.”
He’s kidding. There was no bar, no woman, no casual hookup last night. We were all fed, watered, and tucked into bed alone like good hockey players on the eve of a game. Well, Hayes might’ve been getting his dick sucked, but his wife made an appearance at this away game because their kid had a sleepover, so that doesn’t count.
“You good?” I ask, pointing at his eye.
He blinks several times, looking up, down, left, and right. “Yeah, I’ll live. Might have to get a guide dog, though. Think I could request a golden retriever? Girls love those things.”
“Dogs aren’t the golden retrievers girls are talking about, man,” I tell him apologetically, laughing at his idiocy even though the only reason I know what he’s talking about is because of my sister. “June says that’s a BookTok thing. Golden retrievers are guys who are goofy and energetic, loyal and sweet.”