Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
The buzz in the air was hypnotic and frenzied. The juniors became local heroes in the weeks leading up to these final games. Someone’s parents made a huge life-sized poster with a team photo and got the town council’s okay to hang it on the side of the post office so everyone saw it as they pulled onto Main Street.
And Vinnie…he was a hero. He’d brought life, fun, and commerce back to Elmwood. He’d shown up, given his time, and sparked joy in the community. It didn’t matter if we won or lost today; his work was done.
But of course, we all wanted to win.
Four teams, three games. We won our game against Wood Hollow yesterday. Pinecrest beat Fallbrook, which meant the championship was between the Eagles and the Penguins. The kids hooted with laughter at Vinnie’s sarcastic, “Is it even possible for a penguin to kick an eagle’s ass?” till I reminded them that yes, in this case, it was.
Pinecrest was a larger and wealthier town than Elmwood. The championship was held at the Penguin Pond rink because it had more seating and was quite frankly, way nicer than the El Rink. They had more coaches, more players, more programs, and more fans than us. And they had the winning record.
Even with the great Kimbo co-coaching, we were the long shot.
But the crowd here hadn’t gotten the memo. Everyone in the rink was on their feet, cheering and chanting, “Eagles, Eagles, Eagles.” I heard a few “Kimbos” in the mix, and wow, it was all so…surreal.
I scanned the completely filled arena, waved at JC, my mom, Ronnie, and Mary-Kate, and did a double take when I spotted a vaguely familiar-looking man I was pretty damn sure played hockey with Vinnie.
“Who’s the big guy with the Seahawk ball cap behind us?” I asked, studying the play Vinnie had just drawn on his pad.
He twisted, then waved, chuckling softly as he turned forward. “That’s Trunk. I wonder what the hell he’s doing here.”
“Trunk?”
“Riley Thoreau. He’s Seattle’s new co-captain,” he replied, still grinning. “Gonna have to buy him a beer after we win.”
“Let’s do the win thing first.”
Both teams were off to a shaky start in the first period. Their passes were too long or too wide, and no one seemed to remember how to skate worth a damn. It was painful.
A brief pep talk and a line change worked wonders in the second period. The boys woke up, shook off the cobwebs, and charged the ice. Two minutes in, Kinney scored on a breakaway, and I swear the roof on Penguin Pond nearly erupted. Unfortunately, our defense broke down with less than a minute to go, and the Penguins were on the board.
“Tie game, third period.” Vinnie let out a low whistle as he pointedly made eye contact with each kid. “Plenty of time, plenty of time. But it’s also when you go deeper and play smarter. What are you noticing out there?”
“Number five only passes forward. I think he has a bruised rib or something,” Max offered.
“Number ten is their whole defense. That guy is the one to watch out for,” Kinney chirped up, rubbing his shoulder. “We need to do something about him.”
“That it. That’s what I’m talking about. What are you gonna do?” Vinnie asked.
“You’re going to isolate him,” I jumped in, checking the clock. We didn’t have time for theories. “Two on one, three on one if necessary. Keep him in sight, but don’t let him get in your head. Remember, this is your game to win, and you’ll do it if you remember the basics. Pass the puck.”
Vinnie beamed at me. “That’s it, Coach. That’s fuckin’ it.”
“Language.”
The boys burst into laughter, then hopped over the boards, shoving their mouthpieces in as they took their places on the ice.
Kinney won the face-off and passed to Jason Umboldt, who sailed halfway down the ice before getting pummeled by number ten in what looked like a clean defensive maneuver. We shot to our feet and let out a collective sigh of relief as Jason scrambled to his feet. Unfortunately, Max lost his mind, went after number ten, and earned himself time in the sin bin. Great.
Jenkins miraculously held off nine shots on goal, and when Max was done serving time, he came out with a vengeance, skating circles around number ten. Their defense scrambled to regroup as they passed the puck, looking for a scoring opportunity we’d assured them would present itself.
And boom…with thirty seconds on the clock, Big Red zipped a shot from the far right at a wicked angle for the winning goal.
The final buzzer sounded a moment later and the crowd went wild.
The team stormed the ice with an old hit song from the nineties blaring overhead. I threw my hands in the air and turned to Vin, who whooped triumphantly as he pulled me into a hug, and planted a kiss on my cheek. It was a chaste and funny gesture—not the kind that would make anyone think twice.