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)
Until now, I guess. Because O’Connell grabs Weber in a tango hold and stares into his eyes, while Alexei circles them with his phone.
I shrink back behind a potted bamboo plant, determined to keep my face off the internet for as long as I live. But I can’t help peering between the branches. O’Connell’s tango is much better than really seems fair. And as the music swells, he dips Weber, who manages to throw an arm back with more dramatic flair than you’d expect from a muscle-bound twenty-three-year-old.
There’s wild applause from the rest of the team. O’Connell straightens up, and I’m thinking that’s the end of it.
But I thought wrong. “Captain! You’re up next.” He claps his hands. “Let’s go, Tremaine.”
Tremaine frowns, and I’m counting on him to end this madness. Then he sighs and steps forward. “The shit I do for you guys. Where do you want me?”
O’Connell wants him on one leg in an arabesque, along with several other of his teammates. They line up like a giant caterpillar of hockey players. “Now swing your arm to the music! And… go!”
Slowly, they swing their arms in unison, with the same tick-tock motion I choreographed almost ten years ago.
It’s over. I should just hand in my resignation. I’ll never live this down, and neither will Chase.
“Kickline!” O’Connell calls. “You’ve seen the Rockettes. Show me some hustle, boys! And…kick. Kick. Now sway, like this! And now we do the wave!”
My eyes dart toward the Jetway door, which is still not open. Darcy restarts the song, and O’Connell is calling for a Dirty Dancing lift. “Who’s flexible enough to try the jump?”
“None of you, dumbasses,” Coach Fairweather grumbles. “But I’m sure you’ll try it anyway. Anyone who gets injured making this video is getting fined.”
Now I have a new headline to worry about. Hockey team imitates skating coach and lands in ER.
“Line up!” O’Connell shouts. “Three in a row! The guy in the middle is the flyer.”
Alexei positions himself a few yards away while the first trio saunters toward him—O’Connell, Weber, and Tremaine. Then O’Connell and Tremaine grasp Weber’s arms and hoist him into the air, where he does a surprisingly competent split—complete with his head thrown back and his back arched.
“Sexy beast!” Alexei shouts as the next trio takes its turn.
I crouch a little farther behind the plant and wonder if anyone would notice if I just made a break for the exit. Like I was never here.
“Legends!” an airport employee calls over the PA system. “Your flight is boarding. Show your QR codes as you board, please.”
“About time,” Coach Fairweather murmurs as he heads for the door.
O’Connell darts after him. “I want to see you strut down that aisle, boys!” he calls. “Darcy, bring the tunes! And get over here, Alexei!”
I don’t emerge from my hiding place until after the players are all onboard. I’m literally the last to walk down the Jetway. The plane is luxurious, with leather business-class seats in every row and sleek wooden paneling. If I weren’t so mortified, I might actually enjoy this flight.
Darcy waves me toward the empty seat beside her and across from Weber and O’Connell, and I drop down next to her.
“Please fasten your seat belts, and set your devices to airplane mode for takeoff,” the flight attendant says.
“Hallelujah,” I grumble. I can still hear “Wicked Game” emanating from half a dozen different phones.
Darcy pulls out a magazine. “Guys, give it a break. You’re embarrassing Zoe.”
“No I’m not,” the rookie insists. “Coach Zoe looks hot in this video. All of TikTok thinks so. And Merritt looks like a stud, not an asshole.”
“Right,” O’Connell agrees. “He won’t have to worry about the two-asshole rule anymore.”
The rookie frowns. “Is that thing real or not?”
O’Connell shrugs. “Everyone says so. Hey, Darcy—you work for Sharp. You’d know. Is the two-asshole rule true?”
Darcy drops her magazine into her lap and turns to pin him with a stare. “Listen carefully. Let’s say I knew the rule was true. Am I going to tell you? No. Because the rule only applies to players, not assistants. So I’d get fired. And if I don’t know if it’s true, I’m also not telling you.”
“Why not?” he asks, frowning.
“Because I need you all to fear me.” And with that, she picks up her magazine again and turns the page.
“Damn,” the rookie whispers. “I want to be Darcy when I grow up.”
“Not a bad goal,” I agree.
Eventually the jet pushes back. I pull out my notebook and try to redirect my thoughts back to where they need to be—on my actual job. I’ve printed out stats for most of the junior players I’ll be seeing today. Scouting is new for me, and I need to do everything right if I have a prayer of getting a full-time contract next year.
At this point, it’s not looking great, though. I need to be known for my coaching ability, not for popping up in scandalous social media videos.