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)
“And that’s Dalton?” Hope clarifies.
I blink, suddenly realizing what I’ve said. I stare at her, all my gobs smacked and flabbers gasted. “It’s Dalton,” I whisper.
“Then I’m happy for you,” she repeats. “What about Shepherd?”
“We’re not telling him.”
She presses her lips into a flat line, her eyes drifting across the ice to our brother. “Can I give you some advice?” she asks. I nod, knowing she’s going to regardless of my answer. “Don’t wait too long. He’s gonna be hurt that both of you hid something this major from him. But that hurt? It’s gonna look a whole lot like anger.”
“You think we should tell him now?”
Her shrug is heavy. “I don’t know. Only you know if you’re ready for that, but don’t wait too long. Though before taking my advice, you should know that I almost choked to death last week because I was drinking the crumbs out of a Pringles can and inhaled some barbecue dust into my lungs. Probably have orange lung disease now.” She fakes a cough. “So your mileage may vary with advice from me.”
“Choked on chip dust? Is that some fancy LA slang for drugs? Are you doing drugs, Hope?” I ask in obvious confusion, forgetting the advice angle for a moment as I consider almost losing my twin sister in a freak chip accident.
She laughs. “I wish. I literally mean Pringles crumbs. But think about telling Shep,” she reminds me.
We skate a bit longer, making easy loops around the rink and avoiding the dwindling mass of people. I try not to look at Dalton every time we pass the area where he, Shep, Randall, and Ben are sitting, but I only succeed about half the time.
On one pass, Rayleigh and Max wave at us, then point to the table of hot cocoas they ordered after finishing their laps around the ice. Not needing to be told twice, Hope and I head that way in unison.
“Thanks,” Hope says, picking up a steaming Styrofoam cup. She perches in Ben’s lap, leaving one chair for me. The one right next to Dalton.
I give her a pointed look as I pick up a cup of my own. Be discreet! I remind her.
She tries to hide her smile behind her cup, but my sister is awful at hiding anything.
“What’re you two up to?” Shep demands, eyeing me and Hope with open suspicion.
“Us?” I challenge quickly, taking the attention from Hope, who will melt like a snowman in June under the slightest pressure. “What’re you up to? Shouldn’t you be watching film for tomorrow’s game? I hear the Mountaineers are gunning for you, ready for a rematch from last season.”
It works like a charm. Shepherd balks, openly scorning the Mountaineers’ defensive line. “We can take them with our eyes closed and hands tied behind our backs.”
“How would you hold your stick?” Ben wonders, smiling because he knows Shep will insist he’d find a way. Winning at all costs is one of his many mottos.
“He’d put it up his ass,” I answer for my brother, “and twerk it to the goal.”
“Fuck, that’s an image no one needs in their brain,” Dalton grunts, clearly revolted by the idea. “Shep doesn’t have enough rhythm to twerk.” He snaps his fingers, acting like he’s struggling to find the beat in some imaginary music.
“Probably why he’s shit in the sack,” Randall teases.
Everyone’s laughing at my brother’s expense, even him. But the most important thing is that Shepherd’s concern that Hope and I are up to something is forgotten.
I meet Dalton’s eyes over my cup, raising my brows. That was a close one!
Chapter 22
Dalton
“Ready?” I ask DeBoer, who has the distinct look of fear in his eyes. But he nods stoically.
I understand his horror because there’s absolutely no way this is sixty kids. It’s got to be six hundred at least. And they’re all shouting bruh and trying to do some weird robot-looking dance while on skates with weapons in their hands.
In short, goalie camp is gonna be fucking awesome.
I tap the blade of my stick on the ice sharply, getting everyone’s attention. “Gather ’round. Let’s get started!”
I’m surrounded by kids in full gear, ranging in age from seven to fourteen. Naturally, the shorter ones shoot to the inner circle, and the taller kids line up outside them so everyone can see. I nod in approval as I look over the crowd.
“Morning, guys. I’m Dalton Days, goalie for the Maple Creek Moose. This is Eric DeBoer, also a goalie for the Moose.” DeBoer waves and flashes a smile when I point his way. “Today we’re gonna walk you through drills, skills, and training that’s designed to make you better on the ice, in front of the goal, and with the puck. Now, some of you might feel like you’re better than some of the easy drills.” I cast a dark look across the kids, some of whom are smirking like I’m talking about them. “Let me assure you—you’re not. They’re ones professionals do regularly. The foundational basics are always worth practicing because they’re how you improve the more complex movements you’ll need to make as the game gets tougher. Heard?”