Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Fighting isn’t how I want to start practice. “Let’s just make the most of the time we have.” I cue up the music and end the argument before it escalates.
I reach for Adele’s hand, and she slips it into mine, letting me lead, because Adele is more comfortable following cues than giving them.
She starts out strong, but as soon as we reach the triple twist, she misses her cue and we get the angle wrong. This happens on repeat for the duration of practice.
At nine forty-five, I call time. “I need to hit the shower soon if I’m going to make the first face-off.”
“Can we try a couple more times? I know I can get it, BJ.” Adele wrings her hands and gives me doe eyes.
I’m trying my best to be patient. I’m aware that this competition is a lot of pressure, especially since we need to place to move forward. But we can’t spend every practice struggling through combinations that might be too difficult, and this is two days in a row that she’s having trouble with the same element. It’s the common denominator, and we need to fix it while we still have time. But I concede so she doesn’t get upset.
“We can try it twice more. Then I gotta go.”
“Okay. Twice more through.”
She fumbles on the first attempt, but the second time she gets it. And of course, because she had success, she wants to try again. But it’s better to end on a positive note with her feeling good.
I rush through my shower, but by the time I’m dressed, I’ve missed a few minutes of the first period. I take a seat behind the bench. There’s a good crowd; the local hockey lovers are all about supporting their teams. I knock on the plexiglass barrier and my dad excuses himself to come talk to me for a second.
“How’s it going?” The scoreboard indicates our team is up by one goal.
“They’re playing tight.” Dad doesn’t take his eyes off the ice.
I scan the rink and find Winter heading for the opposition’s net. The puck slides behind the crease, and she hits the boards before she can stop herself.
“Shake it off,” I mutter. “You got this.”
“She’s off today,” Dad says quietly.
“First-game jitters?” I ask, even though I know it’s more than that.
“That’s what I thought initially, but she’s…on edge.”
I worry about the ramifications of last night. I don’t know how much money she had saved for tuition, but I can guess that any amount going missing would be a major setback.
Winter recovers and makes a nice pass, but her teammate misses the opportunity to score. My dad returns to the bench when Winter gets called off the ice and leans in to talk to her as she takes a seat. Her eyes stay locked on the game, and her jaw tics, but she nods, as though she’s agreeing with whatever he says. I wonder if this is something she’s used to doing—being agreeable so she doesn’t rock the boat. Not to mention being afraid to lose this opportunity. Winter glances over her shoulder and gives me a small smile, but she looks tired and anxious.
Her knee bounces a few times as she turns back to the game, and she keeps pulling at the chinstrap of her helmet, like it’s too tight. One of her teammates pats her shoulder, maybe in reassurance.
Winter rotates back onto the ice as our team gains control of the puck. She passes to her teammate and skates behind the net, staying in control in the crease. It’s a great setup, but I see what Winter can’t, and that’s the opposition coming up from behind, looking to get between Winter and the boards. The player moves in tight to Winter, causing her to lose her focus and her balance. One second the puck is kissing Winter’s blade, the next she’s sprawled across the ice, taking the opposition down with her.
Winter gets to her knees, gloved hand going to her face. Red spatters her white and black jersey and dots the ice under her. She touches her chin, face contorting in a grimace.
“Shit, she’s injured.” I start to stand, but realize I can’t do anything. Besides, she’s not the type who likes to be fawned over, especially under these circumstances.
The refs call the play, and the buzzer sounds.
Winter yanks off her gloves and spins around, as if she’s looking for someone to go after. Thankfully the ref and her teammates have surrounded her. Fern Harmer, the team captain, steers her toward the bench, and the opposition gets a penalty for interference. Blood drips from Winter’s chin, leaving a trail on the ice. A thin stream travels down her throat and soaks into her jersey. Her eyes are on fire.
Once she’s on the bench, my dad is there, helping unclip her helmet while the action on the ice is paused.