Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Stone carries the puck smoothly over the blue line, shoulders squared, head on a swivel. Boone breaks right, drawing defenders wide and opening a perfect gap in the center of the ice. Stone flicks the puck across, a perfect pass to Penn, who one-times it toward the net.
The opposing goalie barely makes the save, deflecting the puck with a desperate lunge. The rebound pops loose, skidding just past Boone’s stick.
The chase is on, Bain and King on the heels of an Ottawa defender who has the biscuit cleanly before him and a ten-foot lead. From the crease, Drake squats low, light on his skates as the opponent bears down on him. He waits patiently and is rewarded when Bain makes a last-ditch reach for the puck, knocking it free, but it slides toward our goal. Drake lunges aggressively to knock it away, his skate catching awkwardly in a rut.
In a split second, he twists sharply, collapsing onto the ice with a sharp grimace of pain.
“Shit,” I mutter as the whistle blows and the arena hushes. Every Titan on the ice converges quickly around Drake.
Penn signals to the bench urgently, and the trainers rush out, kneeling beside our goalie.
“That looked bad,” Van says from beside me on the bench.
“Yeah,” I murmur grimly. It did not look pleasant and by the grimace on Drake’s face, I’m guessing it’s definitely a game-ending injury.
He’s eventually lifted to his skates, leaning heavily on King and Bain, his jaw clenched tight. He’s not putting any weight on his left leg, and as they guide him off, it’s clear from everyone’s faces—this is bad.
The arena breaks into supportive applause, a low rumble of concern and encouragement as Drake slowly exits the ice.
Penn exchanges a tense look with Stone, both knowing what losing Drake means at this point in the season. The playoffs are looming, and Drake’s our anchor.
“Damn,” Rafferty growls, shaking his head. “We didn’t need this.”
“No,” Van says, determination flickering behind his worry. “But we’ll rally. We always do.”
Kace Elliott comes off the bench and he’s a reliable backup goalie. A little young but has the instincts of a veteran. We ultimately close out the win with an empty netter, bringing us one step closer to securing a prime playoff spot. Still, there’s an undeniable sense of unease rippling through the Titans’ bench. Losing Drake isn’t just losing a goalie—it’s losing a piece of our identity.
Back in the locker room, I sit on the bench in front of my cubby, hair still wet from the post-game shower. My body aches in that good, earned way.
Penn emerges with a towel around his waist, another around his shoulders. He plops down on the bench and shakes his head. “They took Drake to the hospital for an MRI. It’s his groin.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, knowing that our playoff potential is very much tied to our goalie. He’s about the best in the league and I’m not sure Kace can stand up to the pressures of leading this team to a championship.
On the other hand, the kid could absolutely rise to the top.
I shrug off my worries, though. “It’ll be fine.”
Penn cocks an eyebrow. “And you know this how?”
“Because I’m Lucky. Born on the thirteenth under a full moon. Every team I’ve been with has made the playoffs every year I was with them. That has to account for something, right?”
Penn shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips. He rises from the bench and claps my shoulder. “I love your optimism.”
“Here to serve,” I assure him.
Penn moves to his cubby to change and I pull out my phone. Notifications. Mentions. Texts from some girl I don’t remember giving my number to.
I open TikTok. Scroll past a dance trend. A failed prank. A cooking hack I’ll never use.
Then I see her.
Pretty girl with hazel eyes that glimmer from the ring light she most assuredly has on before her. No makeup, a fluffy sweater on her shoulders.
“Hey, Pittsburgh besties… grab a cup of tea, pet something soft, and mentally prepare yourselves, because I’ve got another dating disaster for the archives.”
She leans to the side, not out of frame, and when she comes back, she’s got… a rabbit? Long fur and floppy ears, she places it on her lap and it looks to be sleeping. Or maybe it’s dead?
I’m intrigued. The fact she’s instructing her followers to lower their expectations has me hooked.
“Tonight’s date? Buckle up. He spent thirty minutes explaining the microbiology of public restrooms. Thirty. Minutes. I now know more about hand dryers than a Dyson engineer.”
She stares into the camera… and yeah, wow… those eyes.
“He also called me ‘refreshingly average’—which I’m pretty sure was meant as a compliment?—and referenced his ex seven times. I counted. It was like she was on the date with us. But invisible. And judging me.”