Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
He’s done the exact wrong thing. A bunch of competitive hockey players being told they can’t do something? Suddenly even the guys that were indifferent to the pig are coming to their own defense.
“I could take care of a pet,” objects Joe Foster, a new addition to the forward roster.
“Me too.”
“Ditto.”
“Yeah, come on, bro, give us a shot.”
Coach’s jaw tightens and twitches as if he’s holding back a sea of expletives. “I’ll be right back,” he finally says, before stalking out of the room without explanation.
“Holy shit, you think he’s going to get a pig?”
I turn toward the moron who asked the question. “Of course not,” I sputter at Bucky. “Where the fuck would he find one? Hiding in the equipment closet?” I shake my head mutinously. “You just had to make me ask him, eh? Now he thinks we’re insane.”
“There’s nothing insane about wanting the love of a pig.”
Jesse hoots. “Guys, I know what to write on Bucky’s tombstone.”
“Fuck off, Wilkes.”
My teammates are still bickering amongst themselves when Coach returns. With purposeful strides, he goes to the center of the media room and holds up an egg, which I assume he grabbed from the team kitchen.
“What’s that?” Bucky asks in bewilderment.
Our fearless leader smirks. “This is your pig.”
“Coach, I think it’s an egg,” one of the freshmen says hesitantly
That earns him a look of disdain. “I know it’s an egg, Peters. I’m not a moron. However, until the end of the regular season, this egg is your pig. You want me to sign off on a team pet, which, by the way, involves a shit ton of red tape with the university? Then prove to me that you can keep something alive.” He waves the egg in the air. “It’s hard-boiled. If it cracks, you killed your precious porker. Bring it back to me in one piece and then we’ll talk pigs.”
Coach grabs a Sharpie from the desk and scribbles something on the egg.
“What are you doing?” Bucky asks curiously.
“Signing it. And trust me, I know when my signature has been forged. So if this breaks, don’t even think about trying to swap it out with another one. If this isn’t the egg that comes back to me, then no pig.” Coach plants the egg in Bucky’s hand. “Congratulations, you have a team mascot.”
Bucky catches my eye and gives me a triumphant thumbs-up.
If this is what being team captain is all about, I don’t know if I really want the job.
6
Hunter
We’re absolutely wiping the ice with Eastwood College on Friday night, and it has nothing to do with Kriska’s weak glove. We’re simply on fire and they are not. Kriska stops shot after shot, but five—count ’em, five—light up the lamp. I’d like to say I contributed more than one, but the hockey gods decided to spread the wealth. The first goal was mine, but the next four went to various teammates.
I don’t know what happened to Eastwood’s defense, but the D-men didn’t show up to play tonight. Kriska is all alone in the net batting off pucks like Neo dodging bullets in The Matrix. Any time a Briar player gets a breakaway, the goalie’s face turns snow white behind his mask, because he knows he’s in trouble. The Eastwood D-men are either scrambling to keep up with us, or tangled up in the corners providing endless rebound opportunities for Briar.
Our fans scream their approval. This is a home game, so our school colors, black and silver, make up a massive expanse of the stands. Damn, it feels good to be back, to be breathing the crisp air in the arena. The chill tickling the back of my neck only heightens the adrenaline coursing in my blood.
I’m on the bench. Two minutes left in the third period, but there’s no way Eastwood is scoring five goals in two minutes. I glance over. Con’s beside me. We’re on the same line this year, along with Matt, and the three of us are a forced to be reckoned with. This line is going to take us all the way to the finals.
“Je-sus, that was a crazy crosscheck,” I praise him.
We’re both out of breath. Our last shift was a penalty kill, during which Conor landed a bone-jarring hit on an Eastwood forward.
“Dude, my ears are still ringing from it.” His grin gives off a toothy, wolfish vibe thanks to the mouth guard half dangling from his mouth.
“We needed you last season,” I admit. “We didn’t have a lot of goons.” Meanwhile, our biggest rival Harvard had the goon of all goons, Brooks Weston.
But Conor only transferred this year from a college on the West Coast. He’s a California boy, with his surfer hair and laidback attitude. Yet there’s nothing laidback about him when he’s smashing other dudes into the boards.
Coach keeps us on the bench as the clock ticks down, letting our third and fourth lines enjoy the action. We’re in no danger of losing the game, and the extra ice time helps to develop them as players. The boys manage to hold Eastwood, and our first game ends in a shutout.