Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I could barely talk when Tacker strode over to me, sweeping his arm out. “Your working party has arrived.”
My eyes darted around, taking in the sheer amount of people he’d brought. Focusing on him, I try to come up with the right words, then I notice his wrist. “Your cast… I thought you were getting it off early this morning?”
Tacker shook his head, lips pressed flat. “Doc said it needs another two weeks.”
“But you were ready to play next week,” I said worriedly, knowing how excited he’d been.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” he replied with a sly grin. “I’m playing with or without the cast.”
“You can do that?”
“Of course I can.” He’d laughed, then given me a wink. “Now, I’ve got work to do, so excuse me.”
And it wasn’t just players Tacker had brought. I was stunned when the Vengeance’s coach, Claude Perron, introduced himself to me along with Christian Rutherford, the general manager. There were other folks from the management end, too.
Several of the wives and girlfriends also came, some dressed to haul brush and timber while others came bearing loads of food. I had offered to barbeque for the crew, but Tacker had forbidden me from buying anything. He told me he’d handle everything, and that all I needed to do was make sure there was a fresh propane tank in the grill.
While introductions were being made and work parties were organized, I took a moment to observe Tacker and how he interacted with others. I was pleased to see that while he looked a little out of his element, he didn’t shy away from the team as a whole. He did tend to congregate with a core group of mates, whom he introduced me to as his first line—a term I’d become familiar with as we’d often talked about the game of hockey in our sessions. The first line was the best line—the most skilled competitors on a team.
Bishop—the captain and right winger.
Dax—left winger.
Legend—the team’s goalie and the assistant captain.
The two defensemen, Erik, and his best friend, Aaron Wylde.
Tacker was the center—the nucleus who held them all together.
I can’t even imagine how out of sync they had been when they’d lost him. The team as a whole and his line. But watching them today, I could tell they were going to pull back together quickly. There was a bond there that couldn’t be broken by Tacker’s demons.
The most shocking arrival of all had come not long after the Vengeance volunteers had dispersed to the different areas of the ranch where they’d be clearing and hauling. A luxury car pulled up followed by a tractor-trailer carrying an actual tractor on its flatbed. A sparkling, brand-new tractor that could provide the necessary muscle for us to blow through the heavy-duty chores on the ranch.
The man who stepped out of the luxury vehicle was incredibly handsome and while he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, he seemed like he’d be more comfortable in a designer three-piece suit.
Erik’s girlfriend, Blue, introduced us.
Dominik Carlson, the freaking owner of the Arizona Vengeance.
Merely telling me he appreciated all the help I’d given Tacker, he’d handed over the keys to the tractor. With no other fanfare, he wandered off to find one of the working parties to put his own nice muscles to work.
The best part of the day, by far, had been hanging with Blue and her brother, Billy. They showed up in a handicap accessible van with Erik at the wheel and Billy in the back in his wheelchair. He has dysarthria and is mostly non-verbal, but I found it easy to communicate with him. He’s an incredibly happy young man who reacted with pure joy as I took him around the ranch and introduced him to the animals. In addition to the horses, we have some milk goats and chickens, as well as a few very lovable dogs.
I’ve currently got one of the baby Nigerian dwarf goats curled up on his lap as I encourage him to hold the bottle at the right angle for feeding. His smile is broad and unending. Blue leans against one of the corners of the small shelter within the goat pen, watching with pure and unadulterated love in her expression. She’d taken over the care of her brother after their parents died.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see some of the wives and girlfriends working at long tables we’d set up outside the gray barn, loaded down with enough food to feed everyone when they come in. Two of the players man the large gas-fueled barbeque pit just beyond, smoke and meaty smells drifting on the wind.
“I can’t believe Tacker put all this together,” I tell Blue before giving my attention back to Billy. Making a small adjustment to the angle of his hand, I encourage him, “Here… hold it up just like this.”