Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“What was it?”
Gus’s brow creased thoughtfully. “Instead of just hitting the puck, I’d analyze the shot. And if you’re stuck on one shot, you can’t read the ice. You don’t know where to skate next, who’s the biggest threat, and who can get open quickly.”
“How’d you fix it?”
“Coach Beekman saw me hitting pucks after practice one afternoon and gave me a few tips. He wasn’t my coach yet. He was the big boss, and I thought for sure he was gonna tell me to quit fuckin’ around on his ice, but…he was cool, patient, and he seemed like he gave a shit. That made all the difference in the world. So I guess this is me letting you know that I give a shit. Don’t give up, Rafe. You’ve got some medals to win before you hang up your skates.”
I blinked away tears and nodded furiously. “Thanks.”
“I’m being honest. You wouldn’t have bothered with the hassle of switching schools and coaches if you didn’t believe you had more in the tank.”
“True.”
Gus stood and held out a hand. “Good. I have an hour and a half before my interview, so let’s mosey over to the rink and see what you got.”
“Interview?” I rose, my fingers still entwined with Gus’s.
“It’s my second one at the high school.”
“Really? That’s great! Congratulations.” I squeezed his hand.
“I haven’t gotten the job yet, so don’t get too excited.”
“Are you kidding? You’re totally getting that job. They’d be foolish not to hire you.”
Gus snickered. “I should bring you with me. You can tell them that.”
“I’d be happy to. If they’re smart, they’ll—” I glanced at Gus as he stopped on the middle of the sidewalk. “What’s up?”
“You’re holding my hand.”
I plucked my hand away and lightly punched his biceps. “No, you were holding my hand.”
“Yeah, right,” he snarked. “I don’t mind. I just didn’t know you had a hand fetish.”
“Fetish? If I was going to have a fetish—which I do not—it wouldn’t have anything to do with hands.”
Gus gave an evil laugh. “I like where this is going, Rafey. Lay it on me. What would your fetish be if you had one?”
“That query makes no sense. People don’t have hypothetical fetishes.” I hopped into his truck, adding, “They either have them or they don’t.”
“I don’t think I have one either. Boring. I gotta come up with one. Do uniforms count?”
“Yeah…maybe?” I chuckled. “What are we even talking about?”
Gus ignored the question, too busy naming his idea of the sexiest uniforms as he traversed midday traffic toward campus. Fireman, police officer, UPS driver, doctor…
The inane conversation continued into the rink and while strapping on skates, and after a short warmup during which Gus attempted to divert the topic to sex toys, I broke free and glided to center ice. Free skate was set to begin soon, but we were the only ones here now.
I took a deep breath…and began to move.
I’d been working on a new routine with elements that were both familiar and challenging. The flourish of arms like a bird in flight, one leg raised in an arabesque. I could feel the wind take me. And suddenly, I was soaring and I couldn’t be caught.
I sat in a low spin, rapidly gaining speed as I straightened. And I was off again, long before gravity could slow me down. A jump…a mere baby step, and then…I leaped into the air, twisting and turning in a storm of my own making. The return to Earth was flawless. A gentle click of blades on ice and I was where I’d begun, slowing to a stop at mid rink, hands on my hips, chest heaving.
A shrill whistle and loud cheering broke through the whoosh of blood in my ears.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Gus hooted like a madman.
My grin was wide, so big it hurt my face as I pivoted. “Thank you.”
I was too far for him to hear me, but his thumbs-up and wink were the perfect reply. I tipped my chin, stared at the rafters, and closed my eyes.
Please let this be a beginning. Please.
CHAPTER 18
GUS
Fidgeting during an interview was frowned upon. The last thing anyone wanted was to advertise a wicked case of nerves. And why was I nervous, anyway? It wasn’t as if I were desperate. I didn’t need this job. It was nowhere near the pay grade my parents had in mind for me postgraduation, and God knew my mom would have a fit if I used my degree to teach high school students.
But damn, I wanted this. So much that I didn’t laugh outright when the principal asked if I was prepared to brush up on Beowulf and Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales.
“Absolutely.”
“That’s good to hear. The head of the English department has embraced a modern curriculum with some newer classics, but we can’t seem to escape some medieval favorites as well,” Ms. Callisto informed me, peering at me over the rims of her reading glasses.