Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
I see Magnus’s situation in a whole new light. Every game must feel critically important. He’s kind of in competition with his own teammates, trying to show the decision-makers that he’s worth cutting someone else so they can keep him.
“I didn’t know it’s like that,” I admit.
“I know this is just hypothetical, but take Magnus, for example. He’s going to get a contract. The question is, will Cleveland lock him down or will another team get him? And that has to make it really hard for him to get close to people.”
“Yeah.”
I hear snorting sounds in the background.
“Just remember it’s outside his control,” she says gently. “He’s under a lot of pressure to perform, and I’m sure he wishes he knew where he was going to be next year more than anyone.”
“I have to get back to work, but this was really helpful. Thank you.”
“Anytime. And if you ever need me to take the boys to the skills practice, my Suburban has plenty of room for them and all their equipment.”
“Thanks. Jules is my backup, but if I ever need a backup backup, I’ll remember that.”
“Okay, talk soon.”
“Bye, Suki.”
I put my phone in the pocket of my scrub pants and head back to work.
14
Magnus
* * *
I’ve had it with this road trip. The flu is still running through the team; we’ve had crazy time-zone changes, and our gear is still sweaty from the humidity in Tampa, where we played last night.
Nashville is the last stop on this trip. I never thought I’d be eager to get back to the Grand Madison, but even my new room there is better than trying to sleep on airplanes or crawling into a hotel bed in the middle of the night.
My mom’s been keeping me updated on Elin. She’s not any worse, but she’s not any better, either. It’s hard being powerless to help her.
I’m an even-keeled person; I don’t lose my temper much. But I’m tired and my gloves smell like a decomposing raccoon. What’s even worse is that Cole Thompson, a twenty-year-old true rookie, is sitting next to me in the locker room.
My teammates called me a rookie when I joined the team, but they dropped it pretty quickly. I was new to the team, but at thirty-one, I’m a veteran of the game. Thompson did a little time in the minors, but this is his first season in the big leagues. He’s been on a hot streak, and he refuses to let anyone wash any of his clothes.
The smell of old sweat on old sweat has his clothes smelling so bad it turns my stomach sometimes. And he’s just laughing it up while I’m about to start my extensive pregame warm-ups and massage with Melina.
“If you’re gonna wear those clothes, sit somewhere else,” I say.
He scoffs. “These are my lucky clothes.”
“I don’t give a shit. They reek, so get away from me.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize I’m in your private locker room.”
“Listen, Cole. I’m not in a great mood, so if you could just sit somewhere else? Thanks.”
“I keep telling you, it’s Cat.”
He’s so fucking glib and clueless and young. He can go out, drink heavily, and still play well the next night. I resent that, and I’m never calling him by the nickname he gave himself. It’s his initials—Cole Anthony Thompson. He says it represents his catlike reflexes.
“You don’t get to decide what your nickname is,” I snap. “Your teammates pick it, and you get no say.”
“Yours should be Gramps since you knit and use a fucking flip phone. Why don’t you go knit something to relax? Maybe a heating pad cover for your old, broken back?”
Across from us, Isaac elbows Leo and grins, telling him things are about to get ugly here. And they are.
“Maybe my back’s so broken because I’m not afraid of a fight, Cat. You like to start shit and then let the real men finish it.”
“Preach, Lundgren,” someone says from the other side of the locker room.
Cole scowls, looking over to see who it was.
“It’s not any one person,” I say. “It’s all of us. Yeah, you’re a hotshot and you can score. But if a two-hundred-twenty-pound bruiser was coming straight for your own grandma, you’d skate away and let her get boarded. And you shouldn’t keep people up on the plane in the middle of the night playing your dumbass video games. You haven’t earned a nickname yet, kid, but if you had, it would be ‘Outhouse’ because you’re full of shit, you stink like hell, and I can’t wait to get away from you.”
“Outhouse it is,” someone says with a snicker.
“Fuck you,” Cole says. “You’re just bitter because you haven’t gotten an offer, but that’s on you, old man.”
I stand up and face him, my frustration boiling over into fury. “Come on, then. Let’s—”
“Nope.” Carter puts a hand on my chest and pushes me back. “We don’t fight each other on this team. Not when we’re in last place, not when we’re in first.”