Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
By hurting Dalton.
Rayleigh and June wrap their arms around me, both helping hold my broken parts together as the third period starts.
The Moose skate back out, and I stare at Dalton. His head is hanging low and his shoulders are drooping as he takes his place in front of the goal. As if he can feel the weight of my gaze, his eyes lift to mine. He looks angry, miserable, and . . . betrayed.
I did that. With my fear and mistrust and damage.
I hurt the one person I would never want to hurt.
The puck drops and almost immediately, the Royals make another score. The puck flies past Dalton like he’s not even paying attention.
“Fuck this,” I snarl, standing up. “Dalton!” I shout.
But I’m one of hundreds of voices in the arena, and he can’t hear me, not over the crowd. Desperate, I look around and spy a kid a few rows away with a neon-yellow posterboard. I can see only the back, but it doesn’t matter what it says. “Mom, do you have a Sharpie?”
“What?” she asks, but then my question registers and she grabs for her purse. “Yeah, honey. What for?”
There’s no time to answer. I snatch the marker from her hand and step over June, running down the few aisles to tap the kid on the shoulder. “This is an emergency to save the game. Can I have your poster? Please.”
The boy looks back at his dad, who’s listening closely to the weird lady talking to his child. But ultimately, they shrug and hand me the sign.
“Thanks! I’ll get you a signed Barlowe jersey. I promise.” The kid’s face lights up, and the dad hugs the boy’s shoulders in joy. On the blank back, I quickly write a message as big and visible as I can make it. Once I’m done, I scurry down the steps, getting as close to the wall by Dalton as I can.
I press the sign to the glass and bang hard to get Dalton’s attention. But he’s focused on the game. Desperate, I stomp my feet loudly on the metal bleachers. “Dalt-on!”
The family next to me looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Help me!” They don’t seem sure, but the next time I yell, “Dalt-on!” they stomp and shout with me. And then the group next to them joins in. And the fans behind them.
Until the whole section is stomping their feet and yelling at him with me.
Finally, he looks over, and I plaster the sign to the glass again.
I Love You, Dalton Days!
I watch him read it. And then read it again before a smile starts to lift his lips.
I love you. I’m sorry. I love you too, I mouth over and over, tears springing to my eyes at what I’ve done and what it’s taking to hopefully fix it.
I don’t realize I’m on the big television screen because my focus is locked on Dalton. But someone else has seen my sign too.
Neither Dalton nor I see it coming when Shepherd zooms straight for Dalton, sucker punching him right in the gut. Guys on the same team rarely fight each other, but Shepherd’s going hard at Dalton, not even aiming, just windmilling his arms to throw as many punches as he can, hoping some of them land. Thankfully, Shepherd’s not an enforcer, but he can still pack a wallop of a punch. And though Dalton holds on to Shep’s jersey for balance, he mostly blocks my brother’s attacks without fighting back.
This is what I was afraid of.
Well, one of the things I was afraid of.
I know how protective my brother is of me and Hope. He’s always watched out for us, making sure we’re safe and not up to anything too stupid. And I know he tells the guys he plays with that I’m off-limits because he wants to shelter me. I figured he’d be mad. I didn’t think he’d go after Dalton on the ice in the middle of the game.
The other Moose players try to pull them apart, all looking confused at what’s led the two best friends to fight. But there’s no stopping Shepherd until the referee blows his whistle right next to Shep’s ear. The momentary wince is enough for the refs to break things up, and they start conferring. Fighting’s a minimum five minutes in the penalty box, if not an ejection. But that’s for fighting someone on the other team. What the fuck do they do about this?
Coach Wilson helps by calling a time-out, and Voughtman manhandles Shep while Hanovich grabs Dalton, forcibly keeping them apart as they shove them to the Moose bench.
“What the hell are you two doing? Barlowe, Days . . . out. DeBoer, VanZandt in.” The two replacement players hop up and take the ice, skating into position.
But it’s not enough. Shepherd goes at Dalton again . . . on the bench.