Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
The game, idiot! The fucking game!
He’s speaking a win into existence, not allowing any room for doubt to wiggle into his psyche, which is more important than one would think with such a physical game. Truthfully, more games are lost in the locker room than on the ice, and a single player can sink a whole team’s season if their mind’s not in the right space.
And he’s right, for the most part. The past few seasons, we’ve beat the Vortex 95 percent of the times we’ve played them. They’re perennial cellar dwellers who have one of those batshit owners who thinks he knows more than actual hockey professionals because he’s got a billion or so dollars. We definitely need to take advantage of it this season again, focusing on the nearly guaranteed wins we’ve got tonight and tomorrow.
But there’s more to it than simple statistics. The Vortex is our geographically closest team, which means the games are always well attended. The energy of a full arena is infectious and addicting, and can make it all too easy to get distracted, and distractions can mean scores . . . for the other guys.
We need this win tonight. It’ll set up our momentum for tomorrow night, and three wins this week can snowball us into next week’s games against the tough-to-beat Torches, which will in turn send us right into the playoffs. That we are going to win. No questions, no hesitation, “no regrets,” as Brody would say. I’ve never hoisted a Stanley Cup yet . . . and I’m going to fix that, come hell or high water.
“Yeah, I know. I’m solid.”
Unfortunately, I am not solid. I’m liquid, gas, hell, I might be a wisp of water vapor for as hard and unyielding as I feel right now.
I can feel Dom’s eyes searching my face, and fearing he might see the lie plainly written there, I get up to shuffle around in my locker.
“Honey.”
“Yeah?” I bury my face in my bag, moving clothes here and there like I’m looking for something when I’m just hiding from Dom’s too-perceptive gaze.
“You and me, two against the world.” I don’t have to turn around to know that he’s holding his fist up.
All guys have some internal hype track they tell themselves, and when Dominic and I started as rookies, feeling each other out and learning how we could use each other to improve our zone on the ice, those words became our vow to each other. We hit the ice as a team, but more importantly, Dom and I skate out there as brothers, the two of us at each other’s backs, no matter what.
That’s why I’m loyal to Dom. In those early days, I was an angry loner with something to prove, fighting against everything and tackling anything I could. I’d shoved my damage down to the point where my rage was mostly confined to the ice, but even there, I was a wild monster. The chatter about me during the draft centered around people placing bets on how quickly I’d end up benched or banned from the league. Honestly, I loved it. It felt good to let loose and to be celebrated for the violence that seemingly came naturally to me. Guess it was the one valuable thing my dad taught me—fight everyone and everything like your next breath depended on you winning the throwdown, because, often, it did.
But pretty quickly, Dominic started helping me channel my whiplash-fast temper until I became the player I am today, still as monstrous but less wild and more intentional about my attacks. Without him, I wouldn’t have made it this far, and it was a no-brainer to sign with the Hawks when free agency came around. I stuck with Dom so I wouldn’t end up an often missed trivia question about that hockey player has-been who crashed out and bombed his chance at the big show. I owe him everything, especially something as small as not touching his baby sister, which is the only thing he’s ever asked of me. It’s the only rule our motley team stands on—jokes about moms and sisters might be par for the course, but hands off or you’ll end up with your hands (cut) off.
I grit my teeth as I turn around, praying I’ve schooled my face enough to hide the multitude of sins I’ve committed, and move to tap his fist with mine.
He jerks away, and my stomach drops out my ass for a split second until he grabs my fist in both of his hands, opening and closing his clawed fingers around it to “bite” my wrist. “Baby shark, doo doo doo doo do doo, baby shark.” His grin is a complete gotcha.
“Shut the fuck up, Dominic!” Coach calls out, coming out of his office with impeccable timing.