Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Z smirks. “I always thought you were the best winger I ever played with.”
“Hey! Standing right here,” grouses Reece. “And, hello, I’m your brother.”
“Sorry, bro,” Z continues without taking his eyes off me. “I’ve always been confused why you never got a sniff from the league. So, when Reece called and told me what was going on, I asked our head of scouting. He said he had you rated high on their board a couple of years ago but was told by the Preds owner to put you on the do-not-draft-for-off-ice-reasons list.”
“What?” I ask as I rear back in shock. “But how?”
Z nods. “Yeah, crazy, right? So I called our owner and asked him. He told me he had a conversation with your dad at some fundraiser a few years back. Your dad said you would never play pro hockey and to not waste their time on you. Apparently, it got around, and now every team in the league has you on their do-not-draft list.”
I stand up and pace around the den. “This is bullshit. My dad wouldn’t block me from going pro.”
Reece glowers. “Wouldn’t he? He talked you into quitting the team.”
Z’s eyes search mine. “If you could be a free agent at the end of the college season and sign with any team, what would you want to do with your life?”
I shake my head. “What’s the point? I’m already off the team.”
Boone points at me. “Officially you’re taking time off for a mental health break. That’s what I’m telling people.” He grins. “Come on, you know Coach would have you back.”
Reece jumps in. “If we win every game for the rest of the season, we’ll have a good chance at making the playoffs.” He pauses. “Or maybe you come back and we don’t make the playoffs. Maybe you don’t get signed by a pro team. Even if all of that happens, you’d be happier than sitting in a law school planning how you are going to squeeze an extra two percent out of some stock trade.”
I scrub my face.
Z squeezes my arm. “Dude. You only make sacrifices for the things that matter. You care about hockey. Let’s go to the arena and scrimmage, just a few of us. Boone has already called some of the defensive guys to meet us there. If you want to give it up after that, fine, I’ll shut the fuck up. I came all this way to see your face and tell you what I think, and I have to fly out tonight. Let’s do this, yeah?” Full of energy, he picks up the hockey puck someone left on the coffee table, the one with The Best Puck written on it.
Looking at it brings back memories. Good ones.
Like a small burst of light, I feel a tingle of hope.
And Z is here. I get to play on the ice with him.
I don’t even think about my reply. “Fine.”
Thirty minutes later, I suit up inside the arena.
It feels strange, taping my stick, lacing up my skates.
“Ready?” Z asks.
I smirk. “You’re with the defense, so I’m sorry if my goals are gonna hurt your fragile confidence.”
“Bring it,” he says and skates out onto the ice.
I follow him, and as soon as my skates glide over the surface, home—and family— settles deep into my chest.
32
Eric
“Hansen! Hansen! Hansen!”
The cheer is deafening as the game ends.
Another win for the Lions.
We were pure magic tonight, my first game back since I saw Z.
I do another victory lap, give the crowd one last wave, then head for the locker room.
When I get there, Coach throws an arm around my shoulder. “Another beauty,” he says as I pull off my helmet and wipe the sweat from my brow. “Get a shower and come to my office when you’re done. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Who?”
“You’ll find out,” he says with a wink, shoving me off.
I peel off my jersey as I peek through the window blinds to his office. Sure enough, there’s a guy in a suit there.
“What’s that all about?” Boone says, coming up behind me.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to gather clues from the guy’s appearance. But there isn’t much. He looks like a salesman.
Reece balls up his jersey and throws it in a laundry bin. “I’ll tell you what it is. Our man, here, is going to the show, yo!” He struts over to me and grins. “That guy’s a scout.”
Or someone who could save me on my auto insurance.
Boone shoves me forward. “Only one way to find out. Get your pretty ass in the shower and don’t keep us in suspense.”
Ten minutes later, hair still wet, I knock on the door to Coach’s office. He motions me in.
The man in the suit stands up. “Eric Hansen!” he says in a game-show announcer voice as he extends his hand. When I put mine in his, he pumps it hard. “It’s great to finally meet you.”