Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I didn’t know her old man that well.
Very few of us that are still around post the team dump ever actually met him.
“Yeah, and I walk around with my gameday stick, tap every entryway I might pass through in my sweater with my sweater over my shoulder, and say ‘Udachi’.”
“What the fuck did you just call me?”
“No. Udachi is good luck in Russian.” The idea of smiling crosses my mind, but the action never reaches my lips. “Father used to say it to me before games when I first started lacin’ up. Well, to the ones he bothered to make, anyway.”
Contrary to how it might’ve looked earlier, I really am fucking grateful to him.
For teaching me the basics of the game.
Training me at a pro level from the start.
Prepping me for the grind and grit and gross politics.
Hell, I even wear the inverse of his number to pay homage and represent his legacy whenever I’m on the ice.
Yet anytime I want acknowledgement for what I’ve accomplished on my own, I’m suddenly a selfish little shit that can’t remember the skates he came from.
I should just retire.
That’d solve all my problems.
Albeit it’d give me a fuck ton of new ones.
Not sure what else I would do.
Something tells me managing an old bookstore probably won’t bring home the same amount of cash.
Hennington hums wistfully prior to reestablishing her irritation with me. “Cut the sentimental shit, Eeyore.” Her arms fold unhappily across her chest. “Nut up. What’s the broadskie remember?”
“Nothing about the event.”
Or the ones I’ve made up like reading her résumé.
“What about the shit leading up to it?”
“Nope.”
“Fuckyeah!” Hennington barks in victory. “What’d the doc say?”
“Nothing major. Don’t let her drive for a couple days because of her disoriented state and to have her follow up with her PCP as well as possibly her neuro in a couple weeks.”
“We’ll do the follow up here,” my GM rushes to insist.
Which won’t be a problem since she works for me.
Lives with me.
“If we do it, then we can’t be blindsided by whatever shit may magically come up. We can get ahead of the problem. You know if there is one.”
Oh, there’s a big fucking problem.
It’s just not med related.
Like she can hear the thoughts bouncing around my brain, Hennington leans slightly forward, suspicious stare swiftly returning. “Anything else you wanna report?”
I quickly shake my head.
Yeah no, I don’t want to tell her about the mix up in the hospital.
So, technically, I’m not lying.
Wording matters.
Learned that shit when my first agent fucked me out of more than just money.
“If I find out you’re lying to me, it’s gonna cost you more than just that C, Alexeyev.”
No yeah.
I’m definitely getting traded now.
Without warning, the threatening expression is replaced by an excited, wide mouth grin. “Alright, let’s do this, Cap!” She enthusiastically claps. “Let’s bring home a W, baby!”
Fuck, do I need a win.
A real win.
One that I didn’t have to lie to everyone in my life to get.
Chapter 6
Igor
My face momentarily falls forward in frustration, eyes briefly shutting as the boys find their seats on the benches.
I need my head in the goddamn game.
Not thinking about my fuckups.
Not wondering if they’re gonna get me replaced.
Not contemplating giving up the C on my chest to someone else who deserves it.
Maybe I don’t deserve it.
Maybe this team would be better if I weren’t on it.
But now’s not the time for that shit.
Now’s the time to man up.
Pretend I have all my shit together.
Get out there and bring home the dub with the boys who have busted their asses all of off-season beside me.
“Boys,” Milano Blanc, our 5’11, two-hundred-pound, almond brown skinned, retired NHL defenseman turned head coach, states loudly, pulling my attention back up. “The Owner and GM of this team will be callin’ tonight’s starting lineup.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his charcoal gray suit. “Stick taps.”
Those holding them pound them against the ground while the rest of us simply clap during Hennington’s entrance.
Unlike earlier when her expression was covered in disdain and disgust, it’s now coated in honor.
Pride.
Admiration.
Hot Rocket tips her chin a little higher and announces, “Up front, Frosky.”
In unison, we each bark out a “ra” at the same time we pound a fist against our chest.
“Hedgecomb.”
We repeat the action.
“Debuting in his first game of The Show, Peck.”
Our battle cry is a little louder in celebration.
“On D,” Hennington continues, adding a little bass in her voice, “Wahl.”
Another chant in tandem.
“Your fucking cap, Alexeyev.”
The bark of solidarity increases in volume yet again.
“And the man between the pipes that will remind Missouri this house is who’s house?!”
“Our house!” We bellow back without missing a beat.
“Who’s house?!”
“Our house!”
“Groff!!!!!”
Our final ra and chest pound are followed by enthusiastic claps and additional stick taps that banish all lingering doubts.
I can do this.
I can get out there and help bring my bros home a fucking dub.