Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 113130 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113130 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
He smiles up at me, and his smile is filled with love. It's a look that I’ve gotten my whole life, no matter what. “That’s my boy, always thinking five steps ahead.”
“Not always.” I put the pen down as I walk to another auction prize. “But when I do, I do it big.”
“There he fucking is,” Nico’s voice booms as he announces my name, walking toward me, a drink in one hand and a smile on his face. Wearing his own tailored suit, his hand is outstretched but I know it’s not to give me a handshake. No, not Nico. He’s going in for the side hug, and if he didn’t have the drink in his hand, he would be going in for a full-blown big bear hug, even though I am a little taller than him now. “The one burning up the fucking charts on the West Coast.”
I laugh and shake my head because, no matter what, he always makes me feel good about myself, even when I was younger. Even if I had a shitty fucking game, he called me up and told me all about the amazing plays I made, even though they were few and far between when I was younger. “There he is,” I repeat his words to him, “the man who never wanted to sign me to his team.”
He glares at me as he gets in front of me. “Your agent isn’t taking my calls,” he retorts, giving my shoulder a squeeze and then slapping the side of my arm. “I’ve been trying to get you on my team.” I know if he had his way, I would be on his team, but there is this whole thing with a salary cap and also contracts. Besides, it would be really hard playing for a team your father played on. I’m already always compared to my father. I can’t imagine how it would be if I played on the team he played on, it might be too much for even me to handle.
“I need to get another agent, then,” I state, getting out of his embrace and he just laughs.
“Especially now that Erika is stepping back, who are you going to get?” he mentions my agent who is married to one of the retired players from the Dallas organization.
“I’m sure Aunt Becca has my back,” I mention his wife, as well as one of the owners of the agency Erika is with.
“You bet your ass she does.” He smiles and slaps my shoulder, going to hug the side of my neck. “Seriously though,” he says, “fucking proud seeing your name at the top of the leaderboard month after month this year.”
I nod my head. “It’s a good feeling,” I admit to him. “Worked hard building the team for the last five years. You know how it is.” I put my hands in my pockets as the music changes from soft to a bit more upbeat and I look toward the dance floor, seeing most of the girls out there. Tori is there with a couple of girls I know, and then turning around in a circle with her hand in the air is Ariella. Who then raises her other hand in the air while she sings the words to the song as she turns to her cousin with one foot off the floor, and her head shaking side to side. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. I mean, I think she was always gorgeous, but I’ve just never thought about her like that. She’s always been younger than me, so it’s not like we hung in the same circles.
“So, what do you think is going to happen this year?” Nico asks me, breaking me out of my stare at Ariella, who has no idea I’m even staring at her.
“It’s still early in the year,” I remind him. “Fuck, last December Edmonton was out of the playoffs and they ended up going to the Cup final. People get hurt, traded at the last minute. Cap space opens.” He nods his head every single time I make a point. “Anything can fucking happen.”
“I have a good feeling.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Besides, it’s about fucking time.”
“One game at a time,” I say and he chuckles. It’s a saying he’s been dishing out since before I can even remember. It’s even in the Dallas locker room on top of the logo.
“One fucking game at a time. One period at a time.” He nods his head, and I look up to see my father coming toward me with Ralph, Ariella’s dad, both of them looking at the pictures as they walk past the memories hanging all around the room.
“Do you remember this?” my father shouts over the music, holding his hands by the side of his mouth, pointing up to the picture of him handing the Cup to Ralph, and I nod my head.