Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
“It’s starting,” Aiden says, turning up the TV volume. He snaps his fingers at me, pointing to the bag of Twizzlers. I toss them to him, satisfied he ate a decent helping of lasagna.
For the next hour and a half, we cheer on the Titans in a brutal back-and-forth game that near the end of the second period still has no score. Twice we’ve been hushed by the nurses for getting too loud so our screams of excitement are more like very enthusiastic whispers, which make us laugh our butts off at how ridiculous we sound.
Watching Boone on TV is surreal. It’s hard sometimes to remember we’re dating.
Actually, it’s more than dating. We are committed and bonded in ways that surpass mere courtship. I’m not sure what we are—I only know my feelings run as deep for that man as they do for my own family.
“Oh come on,” Aiden yells, pointing frantically at the TV. “That’s hooking.” Sure enough, the ref signals the penalty and after the Titans touch the puck, play is stopped. “That Regalan is an ass,” Aiden proclaims.
I almost chastise him for the language but I don’t bother. Regalan is an ass and it’s playoff hockey.
Also… I want to absorb every moment of Aiden’s spunky personality. Dad must feel the same as he doesn’t say a word, instead watching the game intently.
The Titans go on the power play and Boone’s first line is on the ice. My hands are clasped in my lap, fingers wound tightly around each other. As preoccupied as I am with Aiden, I have a burning passion to see Boone and his team win. I’m so damn proud of what he does and this game is so pivotal.
It’s do or die.
“The players line up for the puck drop,” the main announcer booms from the television. “The Titans are about to start their second power play of the game, with New Jersey’s Regalan picking up the two-minute minor for hooking.”
The co-commentator chimes in, “The Titans need this, Tom. They must capitalize on this opportunity, especially being down in the series.”
“Damn right they need to capitalize,” Aiden says, his thin legs crisscrossed as he leans forward.
The puck drops and Coen wins the faceoff, shooting it right over to Boone. I watch entranced as he skates to the near side and the rest of the line sets up. The Wildcats’ defense is tight, leaving no room for a clear shot, so Boone initiates a string of crisp passes on the perimeter between himself, Coen and Stone, trying to draw the other team out and loosen traffic in front of the goal.
“The Titans have a strong power-play unit,” the announcer says, “but the Wildcats’ penalty kill has been on point this series.”
That’s the cold, hard truth. They’ve been on fire and I don’t know all that much about hockey. I don’t know what’s making them so much better in the last few games.
Stone passes it to Coen who whips it over to Boone. He spies an opening at the same time Bain screens the goalie. Coen crashes in and Boone winds up a hard slap shot at the goal. It catches the Wildcat goalie off guard and bounces off his shoulder. The puck falls to the ice and a mad scramble happens as the players converge. Sticks slap at it and players elbow one another until finally it pops free.
Right onto the damn stick of a Wildcat player who sends it careening down ice. Boone and his mates make a hasty exit, letting the second line come in to take the rest of the power play.
♦
The buzzer sounds ending the game and I sigh as I look over at Aiden. He’s sound asleep. The Wildcats scored at the beginning of the third period and it took all the energy and fight out of Aiden. He nodded off within a few minutes and never woke up to see the Titans lose.
While I tried to follow the rest of the game and was fervently throwing up prayers for the Titans to pull it off, when the game was over I was relieved I didn’t have to split my attention between Boone and Aiden. It makes me feel guilty as hell to acknowledge that, but I know Boone would understand.
I know it’s something he’d tell me not to obsess over. He’d rightfully tell me to put my worries on Aiden and not a hockey game.
“What are you thinking?” my dad asks, and for an embarrassing few seconds, I forgot he was in the room. After the Wildcats scored, it sapped our energy and we didn’t say much for the rest of the game.
“I’m thinking that I’m scared Aiden fell asleep during the game.”
Dad nods, his gaze going down to his hands clasped over his belly.
“How are you doing?” I ask him quietly. This isn’t an out-of-the-blue question. I check in with him constantly because I have plenty of worry for him and his sobriety.