Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Yes. No. I don’t know. “You do enough, Amira.”
“My job is to do more than enough. And listen, I know you stress. I get it. You like the team and want to stay. But no amount of wanting will change the fact that you don’t have a no-trade clause. So maybe it would help to talk to someone? Or, you know, do more yoga,” she says, then knocks back the rest of her coffee.
But maybe even yoga isn’t safe. Not if I keep having these dirty thoughts about my instructor. I blow out a breath, scrubbing a hand across my jawline. Am I really this tightly wound?
Truth is, I’ve been tightly wound for a while. I’ve seen plenty of shrinks, too, since my brother died a decade ago when I was sixteen and he was twenty. Fact is, this is just who I am now.
“Maybe I’ll try to relax in Lucky Falls,” I say, then we shoot the breeze about the latest TV shows we’ve been watching and the conversation change eases some of the tension in me. From the tea talk to the TV talk, I’m finding a distraction definitely helps.
By the time we’re done, I feel marginally better about the incessant trade rumors. I feel better, too, that I have an agent who understands me.
And friends.
Like Gavin, who’s waiting at the curb in his car when my meeting is done. I hop inside and announce, “I need a distraction.”
16
MORE TO COME
Gavin
He came to the right guy then. When a friend needs something, I make it happen. First, though, I give Rhys a little hell. Just to keep him on his toes.
I tap the gas and head up Divisadero, sunglasses on, rock music pumping through the car. “Why do you need a distraction? They’re getting rid of your sorry ass?”
“You’d miss me. You pretend you wouldn’t, but you would.”
I scoff. Like I’d let on I’d miss him fiercely. Also, he fucking knows I’m joking. “Doubtful.”
“You’d cry like a baby every day.”
“I’d never shed a tear.”
“You’d be a right blubbering mess.”
“I’d celebrate every day. And I’d be more determined than ever to be part of the team that mows you down.”
“Revenge, eh?”
“It’s fucking motivating, isn’t it?” Hell, it’s kept me going for a damn long time.
Well, not revenge. More like…vindication. There’s little quite as satisfying as proving the naysayers wrong. Not only did my aunt and uncle who raised me say I’d never be a pro hockey player, but my uncle said I’d never amount to much of anything. That it was a burden for him and Mom’s sister to raise me after my parents were killed.
Oh, and the snake of a man said I couldn’t cook to save my life. Proved him wrong on that count too.
As I drive, Rhys seems to give my rhetorical question some real thought. “Fair point, mate. Is that why we hate the Sea Dogs so much?”
“Because they’ve won more cups than us.”
“And we weren’t even with the Foxes when they won,” he says as we cruise onto the Golden Gate Bridge.
“But revenge gets passed on. And its cousins, rivalry and passion,” I say.
Rhys leans back in the passenger seat, like he’s relaxing into it. “You’re a helluva teammate, Worthy.”
I smile, a pleased feeling spreading across my chest. That’s the goal. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. When you grow up raised by people you can’t rely on, there’s nothing better than being a guy your teammates can count on. It’s a fucking calling, and no matter who I play for, where I play, I won’t ever be the guy to let down a teammate.
“So are you, man,” I say, then I tap the dashboard as a new tune swells across the speakers. A workout song. The kind you play to get pumped up. “And listen, we’re going to play our asses off the rest of the season. Focus on the prize and be the last team standing. But what kind of distraction do you want in the meantime? New car? A poker night? A rousing round of Candy Land?” I ask as we pass the Marin Headlands, cruising by the big, beautiful hills that’ll take us to Wine Country. Before he answers, I offer one more. “Or maybe you need to get laid.”
He rolls his eyes but then goes quiet as we wind past Sausalito, the Richardson Bay glittering to the right.
I smirk. “I’m talking your language now. See? I think you just need to blow off some steam. Maybe when we’re in Lucky Falls you can get laid again and break your un-laid streak.”
“You and your streaks,” Rhys says, seeming amused.
“You like your un-laid streak?”
“I don’t believe in superstitions,” he counters.
“But I do,” I say, since they aren’t truly superstitions. They’re a mindset. An athlete needs habits to compete at the highest level. Practice is a habit, excellence is a habit, teamwork is a habit. If you get lazy, you get sloppy, then you start missing chances on the ice and in life.