Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
“You’re here bright and early,” he says to me, grabbing the shake that the chef just handed to him. “Bernie,” he asks the chef, “is there enough left for another shake?”
“Yes,” he says, turning and getting a glass to pour me one.
“Thank you,” I say to him and then take a sip. “What’s in here?”
“Fruit,” he says. “I tried the green celery thing.” He grimaces. “Not my cup of tea.”
“In LA, it’s all about the juices,” I tell him. “Celery, kale, beet root.”
“LA is its own brand of living,” Max says, and I nod. “Now let’s get on the ice and see how shaky the legs are.”
I laugh at him. “Are you talking about me or yourself?”
“Both,” he says, laughing. We walk back into the dressing room, and I sit at my place. I undress and start getting into my gear. When I slip my feet into my skates, it’s almost like a sigh of relief. Everything is like it was the first time I started skating. “I’ll be on the ice,” Max says to me. Getting up, he grabs his gloves and helmet and walks toward the door.
Slipping the blue jersey on, I look down and see New York in the middle of it in red letters. “Don’t fuck this up,” I say to myself, grabbing my helmet and gloves and making my way out. I stop where all the sticks are lined up against the wall. Each of them are separated by player, so I grab one of my custom sticks and make my way through the door to the arena. I look around for the first time; the stands are empty, but it’s a huge building. It’s quiet, so eerily quiet, and when I glide onto the ice, it’s like that first time. The smell of the dry ice hitting you right away. I don’t know why I thought I would forget how to skate. I don’t know why I thought it would be like that first time when I was three, and I couldn’t get my skates to skate.
I skate around the rink a couple of times, getting my skates used to the ice. Max is taking shots at the goal down on the other side. “Well, well, well …” I look up to see Matthew. “You don’t look too bad,” he says, pushing me, and I smile and see he’s in full gear.
“Yeah, I didn’t fall yet,” I tell him, holding the stick in my hand and then seeing someone else get on the ice. There is no mistaking who it is; the man is a legend and his skating is just as good now as it was when he retired.
“Hey there,” Cooper says, skating to us and then stopping. My heart speeds up just a touch as I stand on the ice with him; it’s every little boys’ dream, and now I can proudly say I did it. “Smell that,” he says, lifting his head. “I used to call it freedom,” he says to me and Matthew. Someone else joins us on the ice.
“You aren’t allowed on the ice,” Max says to the guy. “Traitor. Take that jersey off before I wipe my ass with it,” he jokes with Justin who skates to the four of us, wearing his Edmonton jersey.
“What are you doing here?” Max asks Justin when he joins us.
“I had to escape my mother,” Justin says, then looks at his dad. “Sorry, Dad, but she was all over me last night about the nail marks.”
“If you don’t want her all over you, then you don’t come home with those marks,” Cooper tells him. “That is step one.”
“Okay, enough of this bullshit,” Matthew says. “Let’s see what he’s got.” He looks at me.
“We rustled up some of the guys,” he says, and I finally see more and more people stepping on the ice. “Thought we could play some three on three.”
I nod at him, looking around the ice. First time really back on it since that disastrous game, and I’m going to be playing with greatness. I’m intimidated, but I am not going to let them see it. “That sounds like fun. Think you can handle it, old man?” I wink at him and then skate away to shake off the nervousness in my stomach. Max’s laughter fills the quiet arena, and then I skate to the bench where Evan’s sitting. I skate side to side to get a feel of the skates and to make them not as sharp.
“You look rough,” I tell him and see him yawning. He just shakes his head.
“Zara wanted fried pickles at three a.m.” He looks at me. “You know where I can get fried pickles in Long Island?” he asks me, and I shake my head. “Nowhere. I had to make them myself. And she didn’t even eat any.” He grabs the water bottle that he brought out and sprays it in his mouth and then on his face.