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)
They respect my knowledge, analysis, and insight more than any other reporter, especially where hockey’s concerned. And definitely more than Shep’s own self-evaluations, which tend toward “of course we’re gonna wipe the ice with them” no matter who the Moose are going against. For him, it’s pep talk and much-needed hype. My job is to be more truthful with what the odds actually are, and I think Dad especially appreciates that.
“If they play like last night, it’s in the bag. Shep seems to be feeling himself like usual.” I roll my eyes at my brother’s ego, which is absolutely warranted but annoying to live with. “Voughtman’s on his side like superglue, and Pierre made a killer slap shot last night, so I think he’s ready to shine. Miles and Hanovich kept a lot out of the goal themselves, but they paid the price for it. Thankfully, Dalton walled off the rest. All in all, I think we’re a shoo-in for a repeat victory.”
Dad cuts his eyes my way, most of his attention still on the screen, to nod agreeably with my assessment. Mom beams at me proudly for the quick synopsis of yesterday’s game and tonight’s odds. But a quick glance shoots between them before they focus on the television again. I’ve seen that look before when Hope and I have entire conversations in the span of a single blink, and I wonder what they told each other. Probably something cute and lovey-dovey, knowing them.
After last night’s game, I waited for Dalton’s call, half hoping he’d show up at my door instead. I even considered getting dressed up and heading down to Chuck’s to celebrate with the team, and maybe, possibly, see if I could lure Dalton back to my place or his. But ultimately, I stuck with the plan. They won the first game against the Rockets but have one more to go, so Dalton needed his pregame ritual, not the added pressure of doing more with me for the first time.
Or at least, that’s how I sold it to myself when I didn’t go out and instead curled up in bed because it was either that or admit I was chickening out.
And when Dalton finally called, I knew I made the right decision. He looked exhausted. Happy to see me, but exhausted. I basically talked him through touching himself the way he did for me the night before, getting us both off quickly so he could rest. But he kept talking, rehashing the game, which was obviously heavy on his mind.
Dad adds to my game report, “As long as Wilson stays off the ice.”
Eyes wide, I nod back, remembering Coach Wilson yelling from the bench last night. They’ve gone at it before, but he was acting as if there’s something personal between him and the Rockets’ Coach Jenkins. Even though Jenkins ignored him, it was a bad look for Coach Wilson, because everyone watching at home could read every word, like take ’em down, fuck them, blockblockblock, and some other gritted-teeth, growled instructions that probably couldn’t be aired.
“Right? What’s his deal with Jenkins? There’s no history on the ice I could find, other than the one go-round they had last year. Is it something off-ice?”
Dad shrugs dismissively. “Sometimes guys are friends and something happens to make them enemies. Might be something small, might be something huge, but it’s never the same after.”
“Wait—” I say, startled at Dad’s revelation. “Wilson and Jenkins were friends? When? I’ve looked through their whole history and didn’t see anything like that.”
Eyes never leaving the screen where Shepherd has the puck and is going hard and fast toward the Rockets’ goal, he murmurs, “High school, I think. Maybe a little before.”
Shep fights for an open shot or pass, but gets blocked by the Rockets’ left defenseman, who drops his shoulder and slams into Shep’s chest. We hold our breaths to see if it’ll be the start of a fight, but Voughtman receives the pass, shoots wide, and play continues on.
“You mean those grown-ass men, who are in charge of a whole team, are playing some grudge match about who got the biggest piece of cake at lunch forty years ago? Using their players like marbles on the playground?” I accuse.
Dad chuckles. “Wars have been fought for less.”
I shake my head, in awe at the complete and utter stupidity of men. “As long as nobody gets hurt for their dick-measuring contest, I guess it’s all good,” I huff sarcastically.
Mom’s head jerks my way, and I grin around the whole chip I’m shoving into my mouth. She doesn’t like it when I use crude language, but she gave up on trying to control that a long time ago. She learned that I’ll listen to her, smile like I agree, and then do whatever the fuck I want, and realistically, I don’t speak nearly as bad as Shepherd does, and Mom wouldn’t dream of trying to wash his mouth out with soap since he’s a solid foot taller than her and she couldn’t reach his mouth unless he let her.