Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
My gaze flitted between our goalie preparing to fight off the attack at our end of the ice and Jake still jawing with Smitty at the scene of the previous play.
Jake, what are you doing? Don’t mess with that guy. Don’t say anything dumb. Don’t needle him. Don’t—
“What is he doing?” I asked, popping an antacid into my mouth as my son pushed the larger man.
Jake was tall and lean like me—six three with broad shoulders and a toned frame built for speed. I preferred running, but Jake loved being on the ice, whipping around corners at dizzying clips with a stick in his hand. So why was he still there, goading the giant? Skate away, Jakey. Skate away.
Jake shoved Smitty again, which made the other man laugh. I couldn’t tell if it was a good thing that Smitty seemed more amused than angry at Jake’s swipe. Hmm, probably bad.
“He is poking a bear. Foolish boy. This won’t end well,” JC predicted with a sigh.
My paternal instincts kicked into gear. Of course, Jake knew what he was doing. He’d played hockey his whole life. Scrapping with opponents was just part of the job.
But even I knew Smitty was no ordinary player.
I almost choked on my Tums when Jake escalated the spat, skating into Smitty’s space. I could practically see steam rising from under his helmet, and that alone was reason for concern.
Jake was no hothead. It took a lot to provoke him, but Smitty had obviously succeeded. And worse, he knew it. No doubt the D-man was spouting some nonsense that was chafing at Jake’s skin like a nasty splinter slicing under a fingernail.
I spared a quick glance toward the scrum around the goal, willing our defense to hold and ideally shoot the puck this way. A shift in momentum might break up this squabble before it escalated with unfortunate consequences.
I turned my attention back to Jake and gulped.
Whatever he’d said had made Smitty laugh out loud. His teeth gleamed through his mouthguard, and his grin was so wide I could see his dimples from my seat. Not too proud to admit that my initial reaction was “Wow, he’s kind of hot.” But then he winked, and I knew the shit was about to hit the fan.
“Oh…no.”
Jake dropped his stick, yanked off his glove, and threw a wild punch that grazed Smitty’s chin. Smitty was still smiling as he tossed his own stick and cocked his fist, socking Jake in the jaw.
Whistles shrieked in tandem, but Jake must have been in a fury-hazed zone. He grabbed Smitty’s jersey and fired off another punch or two. Honestly, he looked more like a mouse swatting a lion than a badass jock sorting out the enemy.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, my heart beating a rapid tattoo as the refs and both teams descended on the melee. Jake was still swinging when they finally pulled him off Smitty. And Smitty was still chuckling, blood dripping from the corner of his lip like a greedy vampire, hands raised in mock surrender. His teammates slapped his back, tapped their sticks to his, and cheered him on as they escorted him to the bench while Jake skated alone to the sin bin.
Twenty seconds later, Toronto scored on a power play.
One minute and ten seconds later, the season was officially over for the Syracuse Scorpions.
JC and Riley shot matching conciliatory glances my way. I smiled wanly and kept my eye on Jake’s hunched shoulders. I could feel his frustration like a physical thing, and it hurt. If your kid is in pain, you’re in pain. It doesn’t matter how old they are.
I’d spent the last twenty-one years wishing I could shield him from disappointment and unpleasantries. We each had our own battles and they had to be faced alone, but it didn’t stop me from worrying or wishing I could fix this.
“Tough break for Jake, but damn, he asked for it. Smitty is still a beast,” Riley said, ripping me from my reverie.
“He is.” JC patted my shoulder and motioned for me to step aside for other patrons exiting our row. “That’s what fifteen years in the pros teaches you, eh? You learn to read weakness and exploit it for gain.”
Riley nodded. “And if you’re really good, you get away with a parting shot. Jake’s going to have a nice shiner.”
I didn’t reply. They were probably right. Between the two of them, they had decades worth of experience. Riley Thoreau had retired from the NHL a couple of years ago after seventeen years and Jean-Claude, a.k.a. JC Bouchard, had played in the AHL for Quebec for ten years.
Nowadays, their lives looked very different. JC was a celebrated chef and part owner of two well-respected restaurants in Vermont. He was a big man in his midforties with reddish hair, an acerbic tongue, a melodic Quebecois accent, and a bit of a belly, which—in his words—proved he was good at his job.