Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
– Everyone
What the hell am I doing up at this hour?
Wait: what the hell am I doing here? It’s the question I’ve asked myself over and over (and over) since leaving the house this morning at eight o’clock.
On a Sunday morning, for heaven’s sake.
And I’m not even headed to church…
When Molly caught me trying to sneak out (holding my shoes so I wouldn’t make any noise) at first I thought she was going to throw a hissy fit. Instead, she surprised the crap out of me by digging in her purse and pulling out a Starbucks gift card. She handed it to me and said “Here. He likes a Grande, nonfat, half-calf, mocha latte.” Then she winked and went back to casually eating her Cinnamon Toast Crunch while reading US Weekly, ignoring me completely as I stood there slack jawed, then glancing up at me once more before shooing me out the door.
“Cece, would you go? Sheesh. The game starts in forty five minutes and it’s going to take you thirty just to get there.” Then she tossed me a pair of mittens. “Here. You’re gonna need these.”
I. Cannot. Believe. I’m. Doing. This.
Now let me tell you; deciding what to wear today is what really threw me off my game this morning. I mean – what do you wear to a kids hockey game in an ice filled hockey arena that looks cute but effortless? With an average temperature of sixty-three degrees in an arena, it’s not exactly a tank top kind of day.
A few parents are wearing winter coats (which, honestly, I wish I had right now because I have a feeling I might end up freezing my butt off). So - what am I wearing, you’re asking yourself.
I can’t look like I tried too hard… After several long internal debates, I finally decided on a light, oversized gray sweater over a long white thermal tank top, dark denim skinny jeans, and gray Frye boots. Wrapped around my neck, a light gray scarf. To complete my carefully constructed outfit, large silver hoop earrings, and my hair piled artfully on top of my head in a messy bun.
Oh yeah – and let’s not forget the mittens.
So here I stand, at the top of the Ithaca Arena stairs, clutching two cups of Starbucks - one Americano for me, and one Grande, nonfat, half-calf, mocha latte in the other, for… um, not me.
The significance of my gesture is not lost on me, and I seriously hope it’s not lost on Matthew either. The simple fact that I’m even here speaks volumes – I mean. I’m really putting myself out there for him considering sometimes he acts like a major caveman on most occasions.
But really. What guy isn’t?
Never mind… don’t answer that.
Curiously, there isn’t much of a crowd. Considering there are about twenty players on each team there aren’t many parents. Probably only about eight or nine moms and dads sitting around, total, waiting for the countdown clock to run out and signal the start of the game.
Most of them are ignoring each other, on their Smartphones or iPads instead of looking at the ice. I gather from what Molly has told me, it’s a scholarship sponsored team, and most of the boys have everything paid for by donors. Kind like an after school, Boys Club program.
So I guess it makes sense that there aren’t many people in the stands: if the parents have no money invested, why bother coming?
Kind of sad, really.
I scan the small crowd, biting my lip. The boys are all out on the ice, and Matthew is standing with his back to the crowd, clip board in hand on the side lines – firm ass clad in dark denim jeans.
A girl could definitely get used to the view.
Nice.
Slowly, I take the steps one at a time towards the players bench, glancing at each one as I step down: it won’t do to trip and fall flat on my ass, small uninterested audience or not.
Matthew
Eight minutes ‘til game time.
I glance down at my clip board, then back up to the ice just in time to see Darnell Pruett take a successful practice slap shot at our goalie. I nod approvingly from my perch.
Good form. Great kid.
There isn’t a lot of noise, because there aren’t a lot of people here, but the sound from the continuously blowing air ducts in the ceiling make it hard to tell if the boys are talking to each other out on the ice, which is something we’ve been working on in practice.
They kind of suck at it.
As I reach for the whistle hanging around my neck and place it between my lips (it’s easier blowing a whistle than shouting to bring the boys in before a game) a quiet coughing sound catches my attention – it’s muffled and not very loud, but still… causes me to turn.