Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
I nodded solemnly, snickering at Court’s playful shove. The teens giggled at our antics and man, they looked like little kids to me. Overeager and overzealous with knobby knees and gangly limbs. The campers this summer seemed five years older. Weird.
“Call me Coach Smitty. I’m happy to be here. Like Court said, I played pro for over fifteen years, primarily as a D-man, but I know my offense too. Who’s our goalie?” I inclined my chin at the five-foot-nothing kid with braces who raised his hand.
“I’m Adam, sir…Coach, sir,” he stammered. Bryson’s receptionist’s kid. Great.
I gave him a thumbs-up and skated backward to study the motley crew. “Just Coach is fine. Show of hands…who played forward last year? And who played D? Gimme your names, introduce yourselves.”
We had Niall, Abe, and Denny on offense, and Richie, Ewan, and Stephen on defense. No one else knew what position they played. Geesh. The team clowns were Tim and Micah. Tim, a gawky redhead who quoted Family Guy five times within an hour, said his stepmom signed him up ’cause he played too many video games. Micah, a heavyset kid who played air guitar whenever he shredded ice, claimed he was here because his dad was trying to ruin his chances to be in a band. And Harry was a fifteen-year-old whose mom signed him up for hockey to get him away from the stove. “I like to cook. So what?”
This was my team. I liked a challenge, and this definitely qualified as one. On the bright side, they were entertaining as fuck. No divas, no big egos, but…other than Denny, no real talent either.
Apparently, a few talented players had opted to stay at Pinecrest High to avoid the disruption of having to make new friends and deal with learning a new system. No doubt enrollment would pick up over the next two years, but this coming season would be a lesson in patience for the coaching staff.
There were twenty teens on the roster, and only six of them deserved to play hockey at a varsity level. The other fourteen were—how can I put this nicely?—awful.
Dropped passes, slow skating, dubious spatial awareness. I mean… Wow.
Court sat on the bench next to me, unlacing his skates after practice. “Well?”
“I think that’s what you call an uphill climb,” I commented wryly.
He snickered. “Yeah, they need work.”
Understatement. Except…Denny. Don’t get me wrong, he was unpolished and raw, but he had something you couldn’t fake or buy. Coaches had said the same thing about me once upon a time.
I had a lot to think about on my walk home that afternoon. I cruised up Main Street, partially lost in thoughts ranging from new drills and the funny kids I’d met while I soaked in the wholesome vibes in the heart of Elmwood. It was hot as blazes—seemingly a perfect excuse to dip your toes in the fountain in front of Town Hall while eating popsicles and ice cream cones.
I had a stupid grin on my face as I grabbed a couple of items at the market. On impulse, I stopped by the bakery, hoping for a minute with Crabby Annie. She wasn’t in, but I bought maple cookies because the teenager at the counter who introduced herself as captain of the women’s hockey team said they were an Elmwood staple. I took her word for it and ordered six, then went next door for an iced coffee.
At least five people I’d never met before greeted me by name at Rise and Grind, including the goth girl behind the counter. I stopped to say hi to JC and one of the fry cooks from the diner. I couldn’t tell you what we talked about, but that was Elmwood for you. Everyone was fucking smiling and everyone was happy. Weird. But also…cool.
I figured the friendly fest would calm down on Walnut Street, but no. The mailman was parked in front of the house next door to mine talking to one of my new neighbors. He waved and introduced himself. Nice guy…Charlie? I think.
Charlie moved on to deliver mail and left me in a vortex of my extremely chatty elderly neighbor, Dale, a wiry old man with wispy white hair and glasses who moved like a snail and spoke like a kid on a sugar high—nonstop and fast as fuck.
“My Gail passed away, oh…going on ten years ago now. Yessiree, you guessed it—we were Dale and Gail and yes, we liked to sail,” he hooted. “Imagine our glee when our granddaughter moved to Vail, Colorado. We had to visit her. Well, of course we did and we were Dale and Gail in Vail…”
I chuckled politely, perking up as a familiar Mercedes turned onto the street. “Bryson.”
Dale waved as Bryson stepped out of his car. “Oh, now that’s a nice fella. I’ve known his wife since she was a little girl. Excuse me…his ex-wife. Piper Stewart. Don’t know what her last name is now. She was friends with our Jennifer. Had my doubts about him at first. He’s a homosexual, you know. I didn’t know many of those when I was younger, but I’ll tell you something, he’s a good man.”