Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
He could either learn a lesson today or in a future game when it could cost them a win.
Burgess sighed, knowing it had to be now.
Digging his teeth hard into the molded rubber in his mouth, Burgess shoved off the ice and put his shoulder down, colliding with the rookie, slapping the puck out of Corrigan’s possession at the same time, Corrigan going down in a screech of metal on ice in the process. The fall was far from enough to hurt him, just to rattle him into keeping his guard up and respecting the defense next time.
Briefly, when the action continued toward the opposite end of the ice, Burgess thought of verbalizing the lesson out loud, but decided against it. If the rookie couldn’t figure it out on his own, he didn’t belong in the league.
A while later, when practice had ended, Burgess sat on a bench in the locker room with a white bath sheet wrapped around his waist, hair wet from the shower and dripping onto his bare shoulders. He grimaced at the painkillers in his hand, lamenting the fact that he’d been forced to add another one, bringing the total to four. How many more would he add to his repertoire before he told the Bearcats trainer he had a problem?
Thing was, it wouldn’t end there. The trainer would tell the coach, the coach would speak to the franchise owner, and he’d be traded or benched or forced into retirement, despite leading the team to three Stanley Cup titles. Already, he was beginning to lose speed. Throw in an injury and he was royally fucked. What the hell else was he supposed to do at thirty-seven? What else was there besides hockey?
Nothing. Not anymore.
As a younger man, he’d made his fair share of trouble. He’d been born with a constant flow of adrenaline. Drive. A thirst for sport that never seemed to wane. What he couldn’t get out of his system on the ice, he put into women and drag racing on abandoned roads. Swimming contests against his teammates in ice-cold lakes that were half frozen over. He was the biggest dude, so he kicked in the door of the school gymnasium after dark and gave his fellow small-towners a place to party. It was a good—or hell, maybe a bad thing his hockey abilities caused his coaches and teachers to look the other way when he got out of line or he could have ended up down the wrong path.
He didn’t, though. Once he got to college and realized he couldn’t get by on natural ability alone, he straightened himself out, focused on school and being an enforcer on the ice. He’d worked harder than anyone. Graduated. Got drafted. Looked for stability and learned to ignore the burn of extra adrenaline in his veins.
After the divorce, he’d invested even more of himself into the sport, mentally and physically. Without it? Now? He didn’t know what life would look like. Didn’t know how he’d be useful, especially knowing he sucked at being a family man. Hockey—he was good at it. The only thing he was good at. And he just wanted to be himself as long as possible.
Gauthier dropped onto the bench beside him, staying quiet while he rooted through his Bearcats duffel for a T-shirt, pulling it on over his head. “Advil isn’t going to cut it for long.”
“It’s not cutting it now.”
“At least go see a private doctor, man,” Sig said. “You could be making it worse.”
Burgess was already issuing a grunt of denial. “Leave it.”
“The way you left Corrigan on his ass?”
“Yup. Just like that.”
“Those fucking sweatshirts.”
“I say we burn them.”
Sig raised an eyebrow at Burgess, as if to gauge whether he was serious. When Burgess remained totally straight-faced, Sig got to his feet and padded to the end of the row of lockers, presumably to double-check if the rookies were still in the showers, which, of course, they were, since they probably didn’t have any responsibilities to get back to at home. The sound of a towel snapping, followed by a pained yelp, echoed through the locker room, strengthening Burgess’s theory. Christ, these shitheads.
Satisfied that they weren’t going to get caught, Sig found Corrigan’s and Mailer’s bags on the floor of the next aisle down and returned with the sweatshirts wrapped in a towel. “Here, you take one, I’ll take the other.”
Burgess accepted the Orgasm Donor sweatshirt and shoved it into his bag, covering it with his sweaty socks. “I’m too old for this,” he muttered.
“Fuck you, mom jokes. You’re never too old for this.”
“Touché.”
Not two seconds later, Corrigan and Mailer went strolling into their row, midconversation about—what else?—women. “What can I say, I’m partial to blondes,” Mailer drawled, earning him a snort and a shove in the back from Corrigan. “Hold up. Speaking of blondes,” Mailer called in Sig’s direction. “Gauthier, is your stepsister coming to the season opener? I saw her on your Instagram and she is fine as hell.” He jerked his chin. “You going to introduce me?”