Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 272(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 181(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 272(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 181(@300wpm)
“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d shoot like my fucking grandma when I made it. You’re supposed to be on the first line for a reason.”
Anton grins. “I’m not saying I deliberately missed shots so I could see you get knocked on your ass, but…I’m not saying I didn’t, either.”
He fires a puck, and as Victor slides down to block it, he loses his footing and goes down. I feel a twinge of satisfaction. As goalie, I take shit from the guys often about how it’s not as difficult or as exerting as what they do.
Bullshit. I started out playing offense as a center as a kid. In high school, my coach asked me to learn to play goalie as a backup, and I ended up loving it. Hockey is a team sport, and I’ve always liked being part of a team. But as a goalie, I have more control. I don’t have to rely on getting good passes or deal with puck hogs. I get into my own mental zone and escape everyone else during games.
I feel a lot more pressure playing as a goaltender than I did as a center. If I play well, it’s all on me, but if I don’t…that’s all on me, too.
My teammates fire at Vic, pucks hitting his padded chest or getting past him into the goal. He’s scowling, because while he’s a happy-go-lucky guy, he doesn’t like being the butt of anyone’s joke. He totally brought this on himself, though. Vic runs his mouth too much.
“You suck!” a defender named Pike yells as a puck slides through an opening between Vic’s legs.
“You get over here and try, motherfucker,” Vic calls back, waving his stick in the air.
I see movement up in the owner’s box, and I look up to see our team owner, Olivier Durand, sitting there watching us. He’s wearing a dark suit and a huge grin. I raise a hand in a wave and he waves back.
Durand’s a good guy. He bought the Chicago Blaze because he loves hockey, and he’s been willing to invest in the team and trust his coaching staff. Other teams have micromanaging owners or worse, cheap ones.
When it’s my turn, everyone turns to watch me shoot.
“He couldn’t score in a whorehouse with a hundred bucks in his hand,” Knox cracks.
I ignore him, skating from side to side with the puck. The other guys just fired from a stationary spot, but I need to handle it from an offensive standpoint a little bit before I shoot it.
As I skate closer to Vic, he crouches down and starts grumbling. “No, dude, no close range.”
He’s so focused on staying upright and protecting his junk that it’s easy to slide one in on his left side. The guys all cheer and razz Vic even harder.
In the second round, the guys start firing at Vic three and four players at a time. He’s got pucks bouncing off him all over the place. Then everyone lines up together and we all shoot at the same time. He gets hammered and ends up falling on his back, laughing.
“This’ll be on YouTube within an hour,” Knox says, holding up his cell phone, which he recorded the last shot with.
“Fuck all you fuckers,” Vic says, pulling off the blocker and trapper I loaned him and dropping them on the ice.
“Don’t just drop my trapper on the ice, prick,” I call out to him, skating over to pick up my gloves. “It takes me forever to break these in, and I take care of them.”
“Sorry, man,” he says, skating to the bench and taking the rest of his gear off.
He’s not sorry. I was right not to loan him my mask, which I had customized with red and orange airbrushed flames.
I shake my head and leave the ice, heading for the locker room. Once there, I shower, change into shorts and a T-shirt, and leave my gear for the equipment guys to take care of.
I’m walking out to my car while checking my phone and see that I have a missed call from my brother Logan. Once in my car, I push a button on the dash of my Tesla SUV to call him back.
“Hey, man,” he says in answer.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I need a favor.”
“More season tickets?”
“Nah, the four you got me are all I need.”
“Okay, what is it?”
There’s a pause before he says, “Uh…I was hoping we could talk about it in person.”
“Fantastic,” I deadpan. “Are you gonna ask me to donate an organ or something?”
“Nah, nothing painful.”
The line goes quiet again and I say, “Okay, give me something. Whatever you need, you know I’ll do it.”
“I hope so.” He clears his throat. “It’s actually work related.”
That perks my ears up, since Logan is a detective for the Chicago Police Department. “Oh. And it’s something I can help with?”