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)
The cameraman throws me a chin lift. “Great game, man.”
“Thanks.”
I walk out of the arena to the parking lot, scanning the space around me. I could lie and say I’m looking for overzealous fans or dangerous drivers, but the truth is . . . I’m looking for an annoying, mouthy, pain in my ass good luck charm who’s nowhere to be found.
It’ll be a quick night at Chuck’s since we have a game tomorrow. We Moose like to party, but the team’s responsible about it. One beer, a grilled chicken plate, three glasses of water, and I’ll be out, heading home to hit the hay for my ten very necessary hours. Back-to-back games are rough. When we’re on the road, we can sometimes go straight from the locker room to our hotel rooms, order room service, and crash. Bus ride nights are worse, but not too bad because the boredom helps you drift away. I just have to stretch more the next day.
At home, we’re expected to make an appearance at Chuck’s. Usually I don’t mind, but tonight I have another stop I need to make before my head hits the pillow—Joy’s.
All so I can show her my penis.
How did this become my life?
“Days!” a multitude of voices call out as I enter. Except that it comes out in cheer voices, making it sound like Deeeeeeyyyyyyzzzz. When I was a rookie, one joker would add “Nutz!” to it, but that shit stopped quickly once people realized I wasn’t someone to fuck with.
I lift a hand, waving to the gathered fans. It’s not so crazy in here tonight since it’s a regular game, not the season opener. That’ll help speed things along.
I go straight to the bar and order a Moose special. The bartender hands over my light beer and a huge glass of water. “Five on the chicken. I’ll bring it to your table.”
I nod in appreciation, turning to take my drinks to the Moose area in the corner.
“Double fisting it like a good boy?” Randall Hanovich, our right defender, asks as I sit down. I spy his own water glass and margarita seltzer in front of him and tap the neck of my bottle to his can. Fritzi would be proud of us for following his strict hydration rules.
“Still drinking that sour girlie crap?” I ask, scrunching up my face in disgust.
He takes a long swallow from the can. “Aah. Better than your horse piss.”
That’s an argument waiting to happen, but we both get distracted when a waitress shows up with two grilled chicken and veggie plates. Ravenous after the game, we start shoveling it in, basically swallowing it whole.
Before long, my plate’s empty, my stomach’s full, and I only have one little issue to resolve before I can go to bed.
Thankfully, I won’t have to go as far as I thought because the solution is sitting three tables away with my best friend. Her brother. My biggest obstacle in my quest for mental balance.
Randall’s talking to a guy on the other side of him, probably forgetting I was there, so I don’t bother excusing myself when I get up. “Shep. Joy,” I say as I move to their table. “Hell of a game, man.”
“Hell of a game?” he repeats, a stupidly wide grin making his eyes seem extra big. “That’s all you have to say? You were a brick wall out there, nothing getting through you.” Quieter, he says, “DeBoer better get used to warming the bench with you playing like that.”
Shep knows DeBoer makes me nervous. I was him once—cutthroat, ready, sure that if I could only get a chance, I could show everyone what I was made of. I’d like to think I’ve grown since then, and have a bigger picture view of the game, the team, and the season. It’s not all one block at a time, living in the moment. It’s a culmination of every block that makes a great goalie. Still, the idea of getting DeBoer off my ass, even for a minute, is a relief.
“DeBoer? He doesn’t have a chance of getting off the bench when Coach Wilson has you as an option,” Joy declares confidently. “Your save percentage is twice his, and you see the shots coming a mile away because you have more gametime experience than he does, which makes your reaction time noticeably faster. Pshaw, no way DeBoer sees ice against the good offenses in the league right now. I mean, he’ll get reps when Coach wants you to have a night off, but knowing Wilson, that’ll be pity time exclusively.”
I grow hard as steel in my jeans at hearing Joy talk hockey.
I’m well aware that she knows her stuff, and I have watched her sportscasts since she took over at the local station. Usually it’s to see her take on the Moose, but she reports on several sports with knowledgeable insight. But her talking positively about me? A whole different thing. Especially when it’s about the one thing I love most—hockey.