Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
So how about we call a truce? Now please sign up for your one-on-one coaching session. If you don’t, I could get fired from my job.
Meanwhile, maybe we can figure out why one of the best skaters I’ve ever met is skating like shit this season. What is up with those acceleration issues? Do you have an injury that’s not in your file?
It’s a work in progress.
When I leave the Legends’ HQ at six thirty, the place is a ghost town. The players are away at another game. This one is close to home, though—just across the river in New Jersey. They’re playing one of their closest rivals, and I’d really like to watch.
Except I’m too broke to buy a TV or pay for cable. Luckily, this is Manhattan, and I’ve scouted out a sports bar on Eighth Avenue a few blocks from my apartment. It’s called Highlights, and from the doorway, I can see they have the Legends game on two different screens, and a Go Legends! banner visible above the bar.
They also have a fourteen-dollar burger that I can probably afford.
Inside, I find that most of the tables are taken, and the crowd is amped up for the game. There’s a loud group of beer-bellied men in Legends jerseys in a giant circular booth. As I steer past them, one of them catcalls me. “Nice jacket, honey! Wanna see my hat trick?” Ignoring him, I look for a barstool with a good view of the TV and hang my Legends jacket on the back of it.
A bearded bartender with kind eyes sets a coaster down on the bar in front of me. “Here for the game?”
“Absolutely.” I put my notebook down on the bar. “And a burger, too.”
“Let me grab you a menu.”
Liking this place already, I order a beer and a burger and flip open my notebook. The game is only in its fifth minute, so I haven’t missed much.
Trenton isn’t a great team, and we’re favored to win. I settle in, scribbling notes whenever they occur to me. Tremaine looks sharp. I wonder if he’s been practicing the technique we went over. It’s something to watch for. The TV camera doesn’t often linger where I’d like it, but the replays are handy.
As the game grinds on, I eat my burger with one hand and scribble with the other.
“Hey,” intrudes a male voice to my side. “Are you joining a fantasy hockey league or something?”
A flick of my eyes to the right shows me a guy about my age, wearing a blue Legends jersey and a backward baseball cap. “Or something,” I mutter in a voice that doesn’t invite a follow-up.
“So you probably need some tips, yeah? Lotta decent players on this team. Not great, but passable.”
“Good to know.” I scribble a quick note about the goalie. Reduce inside edge drag?
I’m also watching Tyler Jackson, a player I’ll be seeing tomorrow. I want to work with him on lateral acceleration.
“God, this guy,” my neighbor mutters. “So overrated. I mean, sure, he blocks shots, but that’s just because he’s too slow to get out of the way. You see how he just camps out in front of the net? It’s like he’s got no idea what to do with the puck. He’s got no offensive game at all. But no, he’s just standing there like a pylon.”
I sigh inwardly. T.J., as they call him, is known for his willingness to block shots and do the dirty work that often goes unnoticed by the armchair quarterbacks in Eighth Avenue bars.
“Don’t trade for him,” my neighbor warns. “And whatever you do, don’t take Chase Merritt, either. His production is terrible this season.”
Unfortunately, Mr. Blowhard isn’t wrong this time. And Chase isn’t making a very good case for himself so far tonight. He hasn’t done much to create scoring opportunities.
The ref calls a play offsides, and the whistle blows. And suddenly there’s Chase’s sweaty face in HD, and I feel the same unwelcome jolt of electricity as always. Except now I don’t even have to feel guilty for staring at him anymore. It’s literally my job.
My dirty secret, though, is that I’ve been tracking his career for years.
After our intense summer and dramatic breakup, I lost track of him for a while. He left college for a junior team, I think. After that, he leveled up to the minor leagues in hockey. But those games aren’t widely televised, so he wasn’t on my radar.
That all changed one night when I was on my way to a competition in Europe. I was sitting in the international terminal at Logan Airport, bored. My eyes had drifted to the overhead TV screen, which was showing a hockey game between Boston and Edmonton.
The camera had focused on the Edmonton bench, and suddenly Chase’s blue eyes shone out from the screen. He was frowning, his face red from exertion. But my heart spasmed with both surprise and longing. From that moment on, I became a secret hockey fan, watching games whenever I could. Cheering for him even though he broke my heart.