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)
Treating our cocky teammate like any other opponent isn’t exactly a hard page to turn. It almost reminds me of that moment in a mafia novel where the underboss allows one of the capos to put the barking dog that’s out of line rightfully in his place.
Another reason I love Sloan’s novels.
She doesn’t shy away from the really gruesome shit when most in her genre would.
The sharp blare that announces the play has Matty immediately responding. Rather than charging forward – like one might expect – he skates backwards. Drags the biscuit around the backside of the net. Does his best to goad us into chasing. Wordlessly expects us to rearrange our position to present him with the perfect opening. When his tactic apparently fails, he darts forward, preparing for a breakaway. With Wahl being closer he’s poised to stop that from happening, which is what Matty predicts. My D partner begins to go in for the check, encouraging the forward to veer the opposite way, not realizing that the man blocking him was never going to follow through. Rather than check with the anticipated shoulder, Wahl quickly spins and uses his other to not only rotate our opponent but have him collide with me at the exact same time I go in for the hit.
“Fuckkkk!” is shouted at the top of Matty’s lungs prior to a long slew of what I just assume are curses in his first language from his flat on the ice position. “Fuck!”
Wahl parks himself on one side of the loser while I take the other.
We lean over his horizontal frame in tandem, although I’m the one who chooses to talk instead of viciously laugh. “You’re gonna need a new bucket.”
Matty groans in agreement.
“You didn’t even make it past the blue line,” WonderWahl continues to cackle.
Upon Coach’s arrival on the scene, he leans over the head of the player still sprawled out on his back. “Still feel like Bush League shit?”
A louder, more irritated groan hits our ears.
“You build the best shit off the basic shit,” I state, leaving no room for argument in my tone. “Got it?”
One more uncomfortable groan is given. “Ano.”
“Good.” Wahl and I each extend a hand to help him. “Quit bein’ a fuckin’ plug, and let’s get to work.”
Basic speed laps precede less basic edge work drills with the team skate coach which is one area I know I – of all players – can use a little fine-tuning in. Being expected to do them one legged to center ice to then switch to going backwards the rest of the way on the same leg would be less of a comical act if we weren’t going one by one like drunken flamingos who mistakenly landed at the north pole. Getting the deep squats and smooth glides requires more focus.
Commitment.
What appears to be an easy exercise is quickly revealed to be anything but.
Eventually, we begin going by lines, learning to mesh with one another’s speed as well as situational awareness.
Wild thing is that’s an important skill whether you’re on the ice or not.
You should always be cautious of your surroundings.
Leads to less accidents.
Sudden movement near the bench where Bricks is waiting to be needed causes me to redirect my attention in that direction.
There’s no stopping the goofy grin that grows in place or the increase in hustle to get over to the two accidents I could not be more fucking grateful for. “Princess!”
“Daddyyyyyyy!” Bella joyfully squeaks tossing her hands in the air.
“Nanny Joey!” I greet next doing my best to keep my heart from stopping when she flashes me a wide mouth, red lip covered grin.
“Dadddyyyy!” Echoes the woman I want screaming in another way.
A way that I honestly haven’t envisioned anyone else doing in fucking years.
You’d think being caught jerking off to her by her would momentarily cease those fucking thoughts but uh…nope.
Only made them worse.
So. Much. Fucking. Worse.
“What are you two doin’ here?” Using the edge of my practice tarp to wipe away sweat from my face is wedged in between questions. “Did I forget about some lunch date or some school event or therapy?”
Yeah.
I don’t love my daughter in therapy – she’s fucking three for Boss Bench Sake – however, after having Joeski explain it to be more like a one-on-one coaching session helping her develop skills the same way I have a personal trainer versus it being about my kid pouring out her unresolved feelings about me being an absentee father, I sort of got on board.
Mom then checked my ass about it so hard while I was trying to eat that I had to reheat my beef stroganoff fucking twice.
Needless to say, Princess was signed up and once a week visits began.
Joeski attends every session and whenever I’m home I tag along too.
When I’m not?
Mom does.
She likes being involved.