Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
I clear my throat. Loudly. He and the other handful that were still on their phones swivel their heads toward me. “I’m gonna make this fast,” I tell the room.
“You better,” Brooks drawls from the couch. He’s wearing black sweatpants and nothing else. “I left a chick in my bed for this.”
I roll my eyes. Of course Brooks was banging somebody. He’s always banging somebody. Not that I’m one to talk. I’ve had my share of girls over at our place. I feel sorry for our downstairs neighbors, having to deal with the parade of footsteps marching up and down the stairs. Luckily for them, we don’t throw many parties. Hosting a party sucks balls—who wants their house to get trashed? That’s what the frat houses are for.
“Aren’t you special,” Dmitry, our best defenseman, cracks to Weston. “I left my bed too for this meeting. Bed, period. Because I’m goddamn exhausted.”
“We all are,” a junior left-winger named Heath pipes up.
“Yeah, D, welcome to the tired club,” mocks Coby, one of our seniors.
I cross the room toward the kitchen, where I grab a bottle of water. Yeah, I hear them. This last month has been intense. Every Division I conference is balls deep in their tournaments, which means a solid month of the most competitive hockey you’ll ever see. We’re all vying for auto-bids into the national tournament, and, if that fails, hoping for a good enough record to be selected to the finals. Entire seasons are on the line here.
“Yes,” I agree, uncapping my bottle. “We’re tired. I can barely keep my eyes open in class. My entire body is one big bruise. I live and breathe these playoffs. I obsess over strategy every night before bed.” I take a slow sip. “But this is what we signed up for, and we’re so close to reaping the reward. This matchup against Princeton will be the toughest one we’ve faced all season.”
“I’m not worried about Princeton,” Coby says, smirking arrogantly. “We already beat them once this year.”
“Very early in the season,” I point out. “They’ve picked up steam since then. They swept the quarterfinals against Union.”
“So?” Coby shrugs. “We swept our series, too.”
He’s right. Last weekend we played some of the best hockey we’ve ever played. But we’re in the semifinals now. Shit just got real.
“This isn’t best two out of three anymore,” I remind the guys. “This is single elimination. If we lose, we’re out.”
“After our season?” Dmitry says. “We’ll get selected to the national tourney even if we don’t make it to the conference finals.”
“You’d bet our entire season on that?” I challenge. “Wouldn’t you rather have that guaranteed bid?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“But nothing,” I cut in. “I’m not gonna hang our hopes on the possibility that our season might be deemed good enough to move forward. I’m gonna bet on us kicking Princeton’s ass this weekend. Got it?”
“Yessir,” Dmitry mumbles.
“Yessir,” some of the younger guys echo.
“I told you, you don’t have to call me sir. Jesus.”
“You want us to call you Jesus?” Brooks blinks innocently.
“Not that, either. I just want you to win. I want us to win.” And we’re so damn close I can practically taste the victory.
It’s been…fuck, I don’t even know how many years it’s been since Harvard won the NCAA championship. Not during my reign, anyway.
“When was the last time the Crimson won the Frozen Four?” I ask Aldrick, our resident statistics guy. His brain is like an encyclopedia. He knows every piece of trivia there is to know about hockey, however miniscule.
“1989,” he supplies.
“’89,” I repeat. “That’s almost three decades since we called ourselves national champions. Beanpot games don’t count. Conference finals don’t count. We keep our eye on the ultimate prize.”
I conduct another sweep of the room. To my irritation, McCarthy is checking his phone again, and not at all discreetly.
“Seriously, do you even know what was being done to my dick when you texted about this meeting?” Brooks gripes. “Chocolate syrup was involved.”
A few of the guys hoot.
“And all you wanted was to give us the speech from Miracle? Because, yeah, we get it,” Brooks says. “We need to win.”
“Yes, we do. And what we don’t need are any distractions.” I give Brooks a pointed look, then direct the same sentiment at McCarthy.
The sophomore is visibly startled. “What?”
“That means you, too.” I lock my gaze to his. “Stop playing games with Chad Jensen’s daughter.”
His expression turns stricken. I don’t feel bad about outing McCarthy to whoever didn’t know, because I’m pretty sure everyone and their mother already knew. He wears his hookup with Brenna like a badge of honor. He’s not sleazy about it by engaging in locker-room talk, but he also can’t shut up about how beautiful the girl is.
“Look, I’m not one to usually tell you guys what to do with your dicks, but we’re talking about a few weeks here. I’m sure you can keep it in your pants for that long.”