Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
At my car, he waits for me to get my keys out and open the door. He kisses me, softly at first, then a little deeper.
Just a promise of what will be in the future.
As I settle into the seat, he leans in slightly with his arm on the door. “Text me as soon as you get home so I know you’re safe.”
I almost cry at that request, but I manage a nod. “I will.”
Another kiss and then he closes the door. Gage doesn’t move as he watches me back out and pull away.
The drive to my place is short, and within fifteen minutes, I’m inside and texting him. Home safe. Thank you for a great evening.
I don’t even know where Gage lives in relation to the arena. I don’t know if he went home already or back out. I don’t know if he’s driving, but he replies quickly, I had a great time too.
Staring at the screen, I feel like I need to say something else. But rather than type it out, I call him.
He answers on the second ring, and I can hear the connection to Bluetooth and know he’s in his car. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. I’m fine. But… well, I like to hear your voice, so I thought I’d call and thank you the proper way.”
Gage laughs in appreciation. “I’m glad you like hearing my voice the way I like hearing yours. Now, get some sleep.”
“I will.”
“Dream of me,” he adds.
“Guaranteed,” I reply with a sigh. “Good night, Gage.”
“Good night, Jenna.”
CHAPTER 12
Gage
It’s the slap shot ricocheting off the goalpost and up into the net that causes the ref to blow the whistle. The light at the score table goes on, and a TV timeout is called. Keller motions with his hand for the first line to stay on the ice, not that it would make a difference who was out here. We’re down 4–0 against the Detroit Cardinals with only fourteen seconds left.
This game is done.
Why the fuck we have to wait for a commercial is beyond me, especially with so little time left. I guess that shit is preprogrammed with advertisers, but I’d give anything right now if they’d just drop the puck again and put us out of our fucking misery. It was a clusterfuck from the start and only went downhill from there.
Detroit has been playing like they’re on fire, and we never stepped up to the challenge.
The first major disaster happened in the first period. Jesper injured himself—groin pull—and has been back in the locker room since. Our backup goalie, Patrik Stenlund, stepped in and immediately crashed and burned. He’s a good goalie, but he’s not one you can depend on in a clutch situation. While he has more natural talent than Jesper, he’s ruled by emotion, and every time Detroit scored a goal, he just got worse. The fact that we’re only down by four is a shocker to me, but our defense has been holding their own.
Coach Keller is in an unbearable mood, and rather than being corny and encouraging, which no one really likes, he’s been screaming red-faced like an enraged bull the entire game, which everyone really hates. There seems to be no good with this guy, and I’m over him.
I’m ready for this evening to be over so we can rack up the loss and get home to Pittsburgh where I can see Jenna tomorrow.
Our line glides to the bench to grab water bottles. Keller starts ranting, particularly at Stone for that last shot that went off the pipe and up into the net. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dumelin. If you can hit a three-inch pipe, you can surely slide it down three inches to go in.”
Stone doesn’t take the bait, merely squirts water in his mouth and stares at Keller.
“This has got to be the absolute worst performance I’ve seen from you men out on the ice. Absolutely embarrassing.”
“Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?” Coen says dryly.
Coen pushes Keller’s buttons all the time, and this one gets him good. His face mottles from red to purple as he points at Coen. “Watch your fucking mouth. I’m the boss and you’re not.”
Rather than be intimidated or shamed in any way, Coen actually smirks at Keller, and they engage in a staring contest.
Coen has zero fucks to give anymore, and it’s Keller who looks away first, turning on our defensemen, Kirill Zucker and Nolan Carrier, neither of whom deserve his wrath. They’re the two who’ve kept this from being a much bigger loss.
I move over to Coen and give him a reassuring tap on the side of his leg with my stick. A silent, Just keep your cool. It’s almost over.
Coen apparently takes it as an open invitation to converse about his woes on the ice tonight. “That fucker McNabb is going to get his in the next fourteen seconds.”