Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 86052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Coach Harris knows who I am and who my father is. Hell, he trained my father twenty-odd years ago, and without a doubt, I know he expects me to be just like him. The shining star, the golden boy, the kid who’s going to lead the Dragons to victory next season.
Not if I get a say in it. This isn’t who I am, and it’s not who I want to be.
My blades cut through the ice as we finish our morning training session, and I must admit, I’m already exhausted. Jaxon, this season’s captain, has us up early running every fucking morning and then working out in a field before we head to classes or to our on-ice training sessions. Not to mention all the added gym time we’ve been politely asked to do, but it isn’t a question at all. It’s mandatory. My last team was nothing like this. We showed up for training, worked our asses off, and went home. It’s no surprise Dad wanted me here, especially after the Dragon’s epic win last year.
Jaxon is a great captain, and I have no doubt we’ll be undefeated champions come the end of the season. Coach Harris and Jaxon together are a deadly team. It’s admirable, really. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but every senior on this team will have the attention of every scout across the country.
Being a part of this team sure has its perks, though. Everywhere I go, whether it be to Micky’s Bar, a club, a house, or a frat party, there’s a line of chicks just begging to suck my dick for bragging rights. And hell, who am I to deny them? Every party is the same. Drinks are thrown my way, dudes want to be me, chicks want to be with me. No matter how the season goes, it’s going to be an epic year.
I step off the ice, dripping in sweat as I make my way back to the locker room. “Good job, boys,” Jaxon says, clapping me on the back as he passes, being the first to push through the locker room door. We all murmur a quick thanks as we find our lockers and start stripping off our hockey gear.
After so many years, I have it down to a fine art. I throw my skates into my hockey bag, and as the boys talk shit around me, I grab a towel from my locker and head into the showers. My shirt sticks to my body, making it a pain in the ass to yank over my head, and I drop it to the narrow bench in the shower stall before working on my pants. Reaching into the shower, I turn on the water and wait a few agonizing moments for it to run warm.
The second I step into the hot water, instant relief washes through me. My feet burn from the ice while my muscles ache, and this hot shower is the one thing standing between that torture and sweet, sweet relief. But by now, I’m all too used to it. My body craves the agony of being pushed to its limits, of being the best and the fastest. Like they say, no pain, no gain.
Giving myself just a moment to breathe, I brace my arms against the shower stall and close my eyes as the hot water rushes over me, bringing life back to my cold feet. I take a few deep breaths when I hear the other guys moving into the showers around me, and with that, I pull my shit together and get my ass out of here.
Not one to hang around to talk shit, I grab my bag and head out of the locker room while quickly scanning the schedule pinned to our notice board. It hasn’t changed since the start of the season, and I don’t expect it to, but habit has me looking anyway. “Hey, kid,” I hear from behind me.
Turning back, I find Coach Harris jogging to catch up to me, and I trail back a few steps, meeting him in the middle. “What’s up, Coach?” I ask, hoping like fuck I haven’t gotten myself in trouble.
“Wipe that look off your face. You’re not in any trouble,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I just wanted to check in with you. See how you’re settling in?”
“Oh,” I say, unsure why I feel so taken aback by such simple questions. Wanting to keep this short and sweet, I give him the response he’s looking for. After all, he wouldn’t be doing his job if he weren’t checking in with his players. “Um, yeah. I’m doing fine, I guess.”
“Good,” he says with a slight nod, holding my stare as if trying to figure out if he needs to push for more details. “How’s your independent training going? I’ve noticed you don’t have many hours logged in the campus gym.”