Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I flash a grin. “I was born ready.”
The puck drops. Instinct takes over. I catch it clean, push it to Parker streaking down the wing, then cut hard through the slot for the return. He sends it right back, tape to tape, but the pass is a hair behind me. I drag it with my skate, snap it to my stick, and rip a shot far side that clangs off the pipe.
“Bad angle,” Blue calls from the line, calm and unbothered, like he’s got all day to quarterback from the point.
I give him a salute, circle back, and snag the rebound. Nix crashes down low, creating havoc in front of Capo, and I fake another shot. Capo bites, drops to his knees, and I feather it across the crease. Parker taps it in behind him like it’s a damn beer league layup.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Parker crows, slamming a glove against mine.
“Nice job mucking it up, Nix,” I call, and he grunts a grin back, shoulders still parked in the paint.
Blue glides over with his typical slow nod of approval. “Now that was jazz.”
Parker rolls his eyes. “Or just Graves trying to get on the highlight reel.”
I shrug, breathless and buzzing. “Nah, just having fun, man.”
I am having fun. More fun than I’ve had on ice since I first got called up to the pros last year. In Portland, I was the new guy out to prove himself, the rookie trying to find his place in a franchise desperate to reclaim its former glory. It was exhilarating, yeah, but also stressful as fuck.
Here, I get to be part of building something from scratch, something that’s brand new, with no preconceived ideas. Playing hockey in Louisiana just feels right. This is where I fell in love with the game. The second I stepped foot in the arena for the first time, all that love and fun came rushing back, and damn…I hope I never lose it again.
We run through more drills, and I catch myself glancing up at the stands between plays. It’s a habit I picked up as a kid—looking for Beanie in the bleachers at youth league games, making sure she was there to see me play. Back then, my mom was one of the only parents who showed up for every single game, rain or shine, changing her shifts at the long-term care facility to work nights if she had to, so she’d never miss a chance to cheer me on.
She’s so psyched to watch my first pro game back home. I’ve already secured her a box seat in one of the rooms with a buffet and all the Diet Root Beer my little mama can drink, because that woman?
She deserves nothing but the best.
That’s been a great part of being home, too, getting to spend Sundays with my mama…and her cooking. You can’t get Cajun food in Portland, at least nothing that tastes like the real thing.
After practice, I’m dripping sweat despite the chill in the arena and a little shaky, but it’s the good kind of exhaustion that comes from pushing hard for every play.
“So,” Capo mutters as he towels off his black curls, “we gonna talk about how that scrimmage looked like a clown car on ice for a minute there?”
“He’s not wrong,” Nix says, shaking his head. “Took us half the drill to stop crowding the same lane.”
“Early days,” I say, though I noticed it too, the way guys kept second-guessing instead of trusting the flow. “We’re still learning the system. And each other.”
“Systems can be learned,” Nix points out, echoing his steady, defenseman pragmatism. “Flexibility? That’s harder.”
Parker’s quiet for once, chewing on something behind his smirk. Finally, he shrugs. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter how good any of us are solo if we can’t figure out how to play jazz together.”
Blue just lifts a shoulder. “Can’t force chemistry.”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back against the bench. “It’s like sex, either you’ve got rhythm from the jump or you don’t.”
Parker snorts. “Speak for yourself. I always bring the rhythm.”
“Please,” Nix says, rolling his eyes. “You couldn’t find a beat if it smacked you on the ass.”
“All this talk about jazz and dancing reminds me,” Nix says, pivoting with that trademark sly grin. “Where do the locals actually go on weekends? The hot female locals, specifically. Because that club I hit on Bourbon Street last week was a dump with a cover band that sounded like the lead singer was being tortured to death. Slowly. On stage.”
“Christ, man. What’s wrong with you?” Parker pulls a breath—likely to give Nix shit about hanging out on Bourbon Street after we told him it was all tourist trap territory—but shuts his mouth again when Merwood appears in the doorway.
“Graves.” Coach’s eyebrows form a question mark that floats in the center of his wrinkled forehead. “A word.”