Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74844 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74844 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I keep trying not to let the negative part of my brain take over. I knew that I was coming to fill a spot until the starter was able to come back. I stayed until the season was over, and being sent down isn’t anything on me. I did my job. My stats are stellar, and…fuck, this sucks.
I’m trash.
I suck.
Ugh.
“We know the Bears will go far with you in goal, and we hope to see you at training camp,” Elli Adler, the owner of the Assassins, says softly. She is more about family than her daughter. Shelli Adler-Brooks sits beside her mother, a younger version of the team owner but more stoic. She’s all business, and it’s easy to see that.
I nod slowly and then stand. “I thank you all for this opportunity and hope to come back next season.”
“Us too,” Elli says, pulling me into a tight hug. “You’re always welcome to come to the house for dinner this summer. I’m just a call away.”
Just when I thought I’d have no reason to smile, given my failure, I find myself doing just that. I hug her a bit tighter, thankful for her support and kindness. I shake hands with Shelli and Coach Moore before heading out of the office and to the locker room to collect my things. Thankfully, no one is in here, because I don’t want to talk to anyone or have them feel sorry for me. I feel sorry enough for myself. Maybe if I hadn’t let in the goals I did, they’d want me for the long-term. Maybe then, I’d have a contract.
Feeling like a dud, I grab my gear and my sticks before heading out to the silver BMW I bought myself as a gift for getting called up. It’s only a two-seater, so it’s a pain in the ass getting my gear in, and I’m unsure how I’m going to get my stuff back to Knoxville. As I use my ass to shut the passenger door, my phone rings. I glance at the screen to see it’s Ciaran.
“What happened?” he asks once I answer.
“I got sent back down to the Bears. I’m about to come to the house and pack then figure out how to get my shit back. I gotta head out tonight, though. We have morning skate tomorrow.”
“Fuck, dude. That blows.”
“It is what it is,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll work hard this summer and show out for training camp.”
“Hell yeah, you will,” he says in agreement. “Since your car is smaller than a nun’s asshole, want Lou and me to drive your things back?”
I would laugh at his joke, but I’m not in the laughing mood. “No, I don’t want you going out of your way—”
“It’s fine. We’re driving back tomorrow since my season is over.” His statement is full of such remorse and sadness. I feel for him. No player wants their season to end. We all want the Cup. We have all dreamed of hoisting that sucker over our heads since we were boys. I know, for me, I used the laundry basket a lot and never let my brothers do it. They were losers; I am the winner.
Or so I thought.
“She’s got things to do at the shop, and we want to spend the summer where we fell in love.”
Gag.
Ignoring my sudden rush of nausea, I say, “Oh. Then yes, please. I would appreciate it greatly.”
“Anytime, bro. See you at the house.”
After saying bye, I get in the car, and I’m basically plastered to the window as I drive. I wonder if Louisa would let me take her car back to Knoxville, and she could drive my car since there is no way in hell I can drive like this for four hours. I know she will. She’s a sweet girl. I am so thankful for Louisa and Ciaran. They’ve been really good to me. Since I arrived in Nashville, they’ve allowed me to stay in their guest house. It’s been nice, especially since they have a heated pool and I got to use it through the winter and spring months to soothe my achy muscles. It’s been super helpful, but now I’m heading back to Blitz.
A failure.
I dial my mom since I’m giving myself about twenty more minutes of self-pity, and she’ll coddle me without anyone knowing. I am okay with the fact that I’m a momma’s boy, because I don’t feel like I’m a sick, pathetic one. I’m a man, but I love my momma.
When she answers, it’s with a happy-sounding Hola, but mine is nothing of the sort.
In Spanish, she asks, “What is wrong with my fat boy?”
She’s called me her gordo since I was a baby. Apparently I can grow and lose my baby fat, but I can’t grow out of her nickname for me.