Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Danica moves to him, handing over the satchel. “I packed you some water and a snack.”
“Mom,” he drawls in slight annoyance. “I don’t need that.”
“But you’ll take it anyway,” she chides as she kisses him on the head. He tries to pull away, and I expect he’s at that age where parental affection is “gross.”
Travis shoots me a shy glance.
“You remember Camden, don’t you?” Danica asks.
I hold out my fist. “’Course he does. I think I last saw you at our game against the Vipers in early November, right?”
Danica, Travis and several other widows and kids came to the game for a special remembrance ceremony between the first and second periods.
Travis taps his fist against mine. “You played a great game. Got an assist.”
I blink in surprise that he’d know such a thing. I don’t even remember how I played that game off the top of my head.
“I like memorizing statistics,” Travis says.
“My kid is a whiz with numbers,” Danica says proudly, causing Travis to flush with embarrassment.
“Okay, whiz kid. Let’s get going. Drills wait for no one.”
Travis runs to the door, shoves the snack bag his mom gave him into a hockey duffel and slings it over his shoulder. He looks back at me expectantly.
My gaze moves to Danica and she rests her hand on my forearm. “Thank you again for doing this.”
“Anytime,” I say.
♦
Travis has natural talent and I suppose it’s in his DNA. I reserved some private ice time at a local complex that has four different rinks. I also brought small cones and set them up for him to do skating and puck-handling drills.
The most recent one has a long line of ten cones spaced about three feet apart. The goal is for Travis to move the puck left to right and back again through the cones as he skates over them.
So far, he’s done three rounds and his time has improved with each pass. He’s flawless around the cones.
I glance at my watch. “We need to get going, buddy. I don’t want you to be late for dinner.”
Travis skates to the starting point. “Can I go again?”
“Fine,” I drawl, as if I’m put out, but I’m impressed he wants to keep going. I reset the timer on my watch. “Once more. Ready. Set. Go.”
Travis takes off and I depress the button that starts the second hand ticking. He maneuvers the puck through the cones with a fluid grace that’s impressive to watch on a nine-year-old. When he reaches the end, I stop the timer and call out the result.
Travis pumps his fist because he’s almost a full second faster.
“That was fantastic,” I praise as I bend to pick up the nearest cone. “That’s a great drill to keep practicing. It sharpens your reflexes and also helps you improve your bursts of speed.”
“Can I try it just one more time, Camden? I know I can beat it again.”
I groan inside because I’m truly ready to go but the excitement on his face plays me for the sucker I am. “Okay. But this is the absolute last time.”
“Yes,” he cries out jubilantly and skates back to the starting point.
I don’t think the kid can beat his last time because it was pretty good and I know he has to be getting tired. But damn if he doesn’t surprise me when he shaves off another half second. He skates over and I turn my watch so he can see.
His eyes light up and he says, “Well, scratch my back with a hacksaw.”
I’m startled by that phrase and my eyes snap to his. It’s something Mitch would’ve said.
It’s something Mitch did say, and often.
Stolen from one of the old Titans’ radio announcers who had a bunch of great one-liners that made absolutely no sense. The announcer would yell them out after a goal and they’re funny as hell. That announcer retired years ago but Mitch loved repeating those lines whenever something amazing happened.
He must have taught Travis all of them and it’s a bit of a punch to the gut—a mixture of sadness wrapped in delight that Mitch is living on within his son.
I clear my throat of the emotion. “Let’s pick up these cones.”
As we sit side by side on the bench changing out of our skates back into street shoes, I indulge several kids asking for autographs. I take a couple of pictures while Travis patiently waits.
When we finally walk out of the arena, he looks up at me. “How cool is it that people ask to take your picture?”
I grin because only a child would think that is the height of being cool. I personally like the adoration of sexy women, which comes with the territory of being a professional athlete, but I admit, “It’s pretty damn cool.”
“I remember everywhere we went with my dad, people would want to take a picture with him.”