Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
She’s been ignoring me for three days, and my ego has officially taken a dive. Four unanswered messages? This has never happened to me before. Meanwhile, we have one week until the conference finals, and my head is all over the place. I’m not worried about the exhibition tonight and tomorrow for the Boston Cancer Society, because it’s not about a win or a loss; it’s about helping a good cause. But I definitely need to get my shit together before next week.
“Oh, and you know who’s getting married,” Hazel is saying.
“Hmmm?”
“Are you even paying attention to me?” she demands.
I drag the back of my hand over my face. I had such a shit sleep last night. “Yeah,” I say absently. “You said you’re getting married—wait, what? You’re getting married?”
“No, not me. I’m not getting married, you dumbass.” She rolls her eyes and shoves a strand of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear.
Her hair is down, I suddenly realize. She usually braids it or has it in a ponytail. “Your hair’s down,” I blurt out.
A faint blush reddens her cheeks. “Yep. It’s been down for the last forty minutes.”
“Sorry.”
“What’s going on with you? Why are you such a space cadet today?”
“I’m thinking about the game this weekend.” Her skeptical expression tells me she doesn’t buy that, so I don’t give her the chance to follow up. “So who’s getting married?”
“Tina Carlen. She was a year behind us in school.”
“Petey’s sister?”
“Yep.”
“Wait, how old is she?”
“Twenty.”
“And she’s getting married? Did you get an invite to the wedding?”
“Yep. You probably did, too. You never check your email.”
My jaw falls open. “They sent e-vites for their wedding?”
“Millennials, am I right?”
I snicker.
The train rolls into the station ten minutes later, and then we’re on our way to my parents’ house. “Mom’s going to be thrilled to see you,” I tell Hazel as we approach the front stoop.
“Did you tell her I was coming?”
“No. I thought it would be a fun surprise.”
I’m not wrong. Mom is overjoyed when she spots Hazel in the entryway. “Hazel!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around my childhood friend. “I didn’t know you were coming! What a great surprise!”
Hazel hugs her back. “It’s so good to see you, Mrs. C.”
“Hang up your coat and come see what we’ve done with the family room! We completely redecorated.” She grabs Hazel’s hand and ushers her away. A moment later, they’re in the family room, where Hazel is pretending to like all the changes. I know it’s an act, because Hazel’s always been a tomboy. My mom’s flowered wallpaper and frilly curtains are way too feminine for her liking.
“Jake.” My father appears in the kitchen doorway, his dark hair messy as usual. “Sorry I wasn’t here last weekend, but I’m sure glad to see you today.”
“Good to see you, too.” We exchange the manliest of greetings: a combination of side hug, shoulder slap, and handshake.
I follow him into the kitchen. “Coffee?” Dad says.
“Yes, please.”
He pours me a cup, then goes to the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients. “I’m on breakfast duty today. What do you think about omelets?”
“Sounds great. Need any help?”
“You can chop up this stuff.” He gestures to the array of vegetables on the counter.
I find a cutting board, grab a knife, and start chopping. On the other side of the kitchen island, Dad cracks eggs into a ceramic bowl.
“So I was watching a segment on HockeyNet last night,” he says as he whisks the eggs. “Top ten most promising rookies for the upcoming season. You were number two.”
“Who was number one?” I demand. Because fuck that. Not to toot my own horn, but the last player out of college who came even close to my stats is Garrett Graham, and he’s killing it in Boston.
“Wayne Dodd,” Dad says.
I relax. Acceptable. Dodd is a goalie for one of the Big Ten schools. He’s an excellent player, but the goalie position requires a whole other set of skills. I might be number two, but technically I’m number one in the forward position. I can live with that.
“Dodd has a mean glove,” I say. “I saw one of their televised games, and he looked terrifying.”
Dad narrows his eyes. “Think you might face him in the Frozen Four?”
“Good chance. Once all the conference finals are decided, we’ll find out who’ll be moving forward.” And that should be my primary focus—getting my team to the national tournament. The pressure is insane. Sixteen teams will be whittled down to four in the course of a weekend. From four it’ll become two, and then one. We need to be that one.
Dad changes the subject. “Are you looking at places in Edmonton yet? Checking out the online listings?”
“I haven’t had time to do much browsing,” I admit. “I’ve been concentrating on preparing for the Briar game.”
“Yeah, you’re right, good call.” He takes the cutting board from me and uses the knife to scrape the diced mushrooms and green peppers into the omelet bubbling in the pan. “So…you brought Hazel home with you today…”