Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Fuck!” he cursed as I threw my hands up, and I barreled out a loud buzzer noise with my mouth.
A few of my teammates gave me high fives or nods of approval when Coach McCabe blew the whistle, while the rest shook their head and skated over to the bench. They were drenched in sweat when they peeled their helmets off, and they glared at me both with appreciation and annoyance.
I couldn’t blame them.
I was being a bit of a showoff.
But I also wasn’t sorry for it. Preseason was over, the real season officially underway, and I had served my punishment time. In two days, I would play my first game of the season.
And I was fucking ready.
“Looking sharp, Suter,” Coach said when I slid up to the boards. He arched a brow. “Maybe consider passing to your teammates from time to time?”
“Need one of these bastards to catch up to me in order for that to happen,” I quipped.
Coach flattened his lips, and Will clapped me hard on the shoulder before squeezing. “Easy,” he muttered in my ear.
I shrugged him off.
Why was it always me who had to calm down, slow down, simmer down? Why was it never asking other players to match my energy? To step up? To fucking play like a pro?
“Sorry, Coach,” I muttered, even though I wasn’t really sorry at all. I think Coach knew it, too, but to his credit, he didn’t make me skate laps or grill my ass for the lack of respect I’d just shown him.
“Fabio,” he said, turning his attention to Carter. “You looked better today, but you’re still—”
“Passing like a fucking toddler handling a ball for the first time, I know,” Carter interrupted, sitting back on the bench with his jaw clenched.
Good.
He should be pissed at himself.
He made it through camp, through preseason, and now he was on the fourth line — just like I’d predicted he’d be. And with the teammate at center in my line on his way out at the end of the season, I needed Carter sharp. I needed him to care more than he’d ever cared before, and to play like every game was a fucking playoff game. We were Stanley Cup champions, and we had the chance to either defend that title, to bring the Cup back to Tampa at the end of this season…
Or, to be a one hit wonder and let it all go to some other team.
“Just clean it up,” Coach said. “You’re slow, you need to bag skate every day after practice. I want to see that speed you brought in the preseason — that will be what sets us apart when we play Boston.”
Carter’s jaw was still tight as he nodded, and Coach moved on, offering up feedback to a few more players before he was addressing us like a team.
Coach McCabe was one of the youngest in the league, a man who had earned respect not just as a player when he was younger, but as one of the most influential coaches, too. He’d come in as a fresh face to Tampa and completely reshaped the team, taking us from a consistent losing record to the Stanley Cup champs.
It was an honor to play for him — even when he annoyed the crap out of me.
He was so wholly focused on our team, always at the stadium even when I came in early to skate or stayed late to hit the bikes in the gym upstairs. I wondered if he ever slept. I wondered if he ever did anything other than work his ass off to make this team the best it could be.
I liked that about him, though. I could relate to that feeling, to not having a wife or kids or a life outside of this sport we loved — or sometimes loved to hate. He was just as consumed as I was, maybe even more so, because where I sometimes fell into a numb state of routine with hockey, he was always alert.
Calculating. Planning. Engaging.
If we had nothing else in common, at least I knew we both wanted to give this season everything we had — just like last season and the one before it, and just like every season we’d ever play in the future.
After a quick run-through of what Coach wanted from us over the next forty-eight hours leading up to the next game, he told us to hit the showers, and my smelly, sweaty teammates filed into the locker room.
All of them except for Carter.
Coach frowned at him, his eyes catching mine before he nodded subtly toward my dejected center. I rolled my eyes at what he was insinuating — because I did not want to be anyone’s fucking babysitter — but I obeyed his unspoken command. I stayed back, waiting until Coach rounded into the tunnel that led to the locker room before I flopped down on the bench next to Carter.