Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Nothing new there.
I get my passion for hockey from him; he used to play for Illinois University. Dad never had any desire to turn pro or pursue it after college, but he was my coach growing up, back when I was in the pee-wee league—although there was never anything remotely ‘pee-wee’ about me.
Okay, fine.
When I was younger I was mostly ‘husky’, but we won’t get into those details. Dad bought me my first set of real blades when I was around four years old, and that was also the first winter he froze a slab of ice in our backyard and taught me how to skate.
I was a natural.
The sirens go off on the rink. River Glen has scored another goal while I’m in the penalty box. To get my head back in the game and out of my ass, I begin striking the door to the penalty box with my stick in a steady rhythm. The plexi-glass is the only thing keeping me off that ice.
There are only twenty-five more seconds left to stand here behind this gate.
I’ve already scored one goal tonight, and we’ve only been playing fifteen minutes. That leaves me forty-five more minutes to score another two.
Then I’ll have my hat trick.
* * *
Molly
I know the second he spots me. I can feel it.
Even though I’m wearing a ball cap with my hair pulled back into a ponytail, he instinctually knows I’ve arrived, just as I instinctually know he’s watching me without having to actually see it.
Shit. Shouldn’t he be focusing on the game?
I’m totally late too, and maybe if I hadn’t arrived between the second and third periods, I could have come and gone without being noticed at all. Another issue is that I’m with Jenna and, never the shrinking violet, she’s decked out in an eye-popping hot-pink jean jacket. Her long blonde hair is thrown into a messy top knot, and she’s wrapped her head with an aqua scarf.
You would literally have to be blind to miss her.
Not to mention, she’s balancing a large popcorn and soda—yup, just like we’re headed to a movie—in her hands, all while teetering on platform sandals. You wouldn’t think there would be concessions at a high school hockey game, but oh! That’s where you’d be wrong, and Jenna just loves her some popcorn. On the bright side, at least with this throng I won’t have to listen to her crunching like I do at the movies.
She’s a really loud popcorn eater.
We find a large group of our friends and shimmy across the bleachers, over through the crowd. Down on the rink, our players are gathered against the boards while Coach Callahan barks at them as they stand in an assembly of panting, padding, and sweat. Even so, it’s not difficult to miss the penetrating black eyes seeking out mine.
Weston wiggles his eyebrows at me.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I feel a hundred heads turn to see who he made the gesture at, and my face lights on fire. Whispering and some pointing from within the crowd immediately follow. Real subtle, Weston. Thanks.
As I’m glancing around the stadium, I catch sight of a woman—the foam finger on her hand is really hard to miss, and she’s obviously a mom with her school sweatshirt and spirit gear—and after Weston makes eyes at me from the ice, she snaps around in her bleacher seat. I watch her watch me as I spread a fleece blanket out onto the small section of stadium seating next to Jenna. Surprisingly, this woman also appears to be studying me back, and I shift awkwardly under her open examination, finally unable to take the scrutiny.
I break the brief connection and plop my butt down onto the bench.
All this gazing and staring is really making me feel foolish.
Everyone—both students and parents—begin to cheer wildly as our team reenters the ice for the third, and last, period. Ahead by two points, this should be an easy victory.
“They are kicking ass!” one of our guy friends shouts to me over the noise. “McGrath has scored two goals! Two!” He holds up two fingers to demonstrate.
“Gee, thanks Marcus, we couldn’t figure that one out by ourselves,” Jenna shouts at him teasingly.
“Be nice,” I say as she wedges her bag of popcorn between our bodies. Then I say, “Good crowd tonight.”
“Good crowd tonight,” Jenna mimics. “We’re not here to be social, Molly, so focus! We’re here manhunting. Eyes to the front!” she snaps her fingers at me like a dictator and snaps them again, this time in my face, pointing to the ice.
I can’t help myself—I roll my eyes at her. Yes, I probably roll my eyes way too much, but I’m telling you, she gets to be a bit much. Despite my irritation at her highhandedness, Jenna doesn’t have to tell me twice. We sit like this, attentively watching the action, side by side and not speaking until there are only three minutes left. I’ve gone from sitting on the fleece blanket to clutching it with white knuckles from the intensity of the game.