Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“I’m fine, no concussion.” I chuckled when someone yelled, “Hallelujah!” and added, “My eye is fine. It was just a small cut.”
Total lie. The gash over my left brow had required ten stitches and was already turning blue and yellow.
“Your team has taken a few hits recently. Do you think Boston is playoff ready?”
“Of course.” I was lying again. “We have three games till the end of the regular season, and I know there won’t be much of a chance to rest, but we’re aware of the stakes and we’ll work hard.”
“Denver is looking like the team to beat in the postseason. Mellon is leading the league in scoring, and Trinsky isn’t far behind him. Do you think Boston can handle them?”
I scoffed derisively at the mere idea…even though Denver had literally just kicked our asses. “Yeah, absolutely.”
I flashed a cocky grin that tugged at my new stitches and made my head ache, then hiked my bag on my shoulder and strode for the exit. Security manned the doors, where fans hovered waiting for autographs. I scribbled my name and posed for a few selfies, high-fiving and fist-bumping anyone interested.
Side note: no matter how shaky and beat up I felt, I made time for the fans. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe I got paid an obscene amount of money to play hockey and that I actually had fans who wanted to meet me. I loved the game as much as they did, and I didn’t take a single second of this ride for granted.
But every once in a while, you ran into an asshole or two.
“Yo, Milligan, Trinsky kicked your butt out there,” someone called from the shadows.
“Trinsky’s a beast!”
The urge to flip them off was strong, but I was stronger. I smiled, waved, and let all the bullshit slide like water off a duck’s back.
Denver fans were generally pretty cool to me, which I figured had to do with my connection to Mellon, but I was still a member of the visiting team.
And okay…fine. I’d never exactly hidden my disdain for Trinsky. No, I hadn’t shouted “He’s a fucker” from the rooftops—I just hadn’t denied or downplayed my deep and powerful aversion to the guy.
Somewhere along the line, the media had noticed and some smartass looking for a headline had dubbed us archrivals. It was a conniving ploy to sell tickets, if you asked me.
I wouldn’t give Trinsky a title or label of any kind. To do so would indicate that I gave him a second thought off the ice, and that was a thousand percent false.
Like tonight. The moment I got to my hotel, Mason Trinsky would cease to exist…until the next game.
Or until my little brother brought his name up.
Nathan’s nose scrunched on the screen, so close I could see the light smattering of freckles on his cheeks. “Your face is purple. Dad said Trinsky did it.”
“I’m gonna yell at him for smashing your eye in next time I see him,” Charlotte added primly, her sweet face popping up as she pushed Nathan aside.
“I don’t think it was Trinsky this time. It was La Marche.”
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
I propped my laptop on a pillow and leaned against the cushioned headboard, amused by their earnest expressions. “A little. Thanks for looking out for me, guys.”
“Mwah! I have to go. Daddy’s calling me.” Charlotte blew me a kiss, her dark hair flowing around her as she spun away.
Nathan sniffed, brushing his forearm across his nose. I could hear our dad telling him to use a tissue and Charlotte negotiating bath time with Smitty while Ella chattered in the background. My heart squeezed with a rogue wave of homesickness that made my chest hurt. That was odd.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my family, but I saw them regularly. Dad and Smitty brought the kids to my games, and whenever I had a few free days during the season, I made the trip from Boston to Elmwood to visit. It gave me a chance to see friends, play with my siblings, and just…chill.
It was good to remind myself that I had a life outside of hockey and people who didn’t care about my stats. Like my goofy little buddy swiveling on a barstool at the kitchen island. Geez, I could practically smell Dad’s homemade marinara and the musty scent of a houseful of dogs and kids. I missed it.
“Let’s see the damage.” Smitty popped into the screen, narrowing his gaze thoughtfully. “How many stitches?”
“Ten.”
“His eye is purple…and blue,” my little brother reported, jumping off his stool, gesturing wildly with his arms. “Want to see my new improved karate kick, Jake? Take that!”
Nathan was a nine-year-old ball of perpetual motion with dark hair, olive skin, and boundless energy who’d recently decided he wanted to be a black belt…like tomorrow. Apparently, that involved a lot of freestyle lunges and hand motions.