Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58792 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58792 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
We stare at her as if she’s a freak of nature.
“My younger brother loves it,” she explains. “I still live at home with my parents. At least for now. My brother makes me play with him. It’s the only way I can get him to bed on time. We play Mage Wars for an hour and then bedtime. Seems to work.”
“My dad created The Fallen Universe,” Jamie tells her.
They talk about video games and boring shit, so I tune out until Jamie hooks his arm around Shannon’s back and kisses her. My stomach turns at their inappropriate affection at the dinner table. I thought I was over that after I moved out of my parent’s house.
My parents are that couple, the ones who are still madly in love and never stop touching each other, even during meals. I constantly had to yell at them while I lived in their house. And I’m not dealing with that shit in this one.
My mom is known for taboo and dirty books that would make a sailor blush. Sometimes, I hear her talking to my dad about scenes she’s writing in her books, and I want to throw up at the thought of them re-enacting them. The thing about my mom is she’s very open. Like way too open with her words and actions.
She says it’s part of her creative process. Maybe that’s where I get it from. My dad is more of the shy and silent type, where Mom doesn’t give a shit and just puts it all out there. Sort of like me with my dick pics, I guess. I’m a weird mixture of them both.
Luckily, Jamie and Shannon take that shit upstairs, and now the vibe in the room goes back to normal.
“You ready for the game?” Tucker says.
Preston drops his fork onto his plate. “Yeah, I guess. I think this will be my best year.”
“Best year for the team, too.” Trent bites into a slice of garlic bread. “We’re winning again this year.”
Last year, we won the Frozen Four, the NCAA Men’s Ice Hockey Championship. We’re hoping to do it again. Next year, if we’re lucky, we’ll be playing on different teams in the NHL, so this season is important to us.
“I wish the announcers would stop comparing us to our dads,” Tucker says.
His words hit me hard. Having famous fathers doesn’t help any of us. Our stats and abilities are constantly being compared, making stepping out of our father’s shadows impossible.
I often wonder if having the same last name hurts or helps us. Until we get into the NHL, it’s hard to say for sure. But I wouldn’t want to get picked by a team because of my dad. None of us do. We all want to earn our positions on our own.
“Oh, I know,” Preston says. “Like I need a fucking reminder of the ghost of Alex Parker.”
“It pisses me off.” I shake my head, annoyed by the last time an announcer threw my father’s stats in my face. “My dad retired years ago.”
“Trying to live up to the legacy of Alex Parker ain’t easy.”
Tucker and Trent nod.
“These asshole announcers expect us to be them…” Tucker says, “… when all we’re trying to do is play as hard as we can to get NHL scouts to notice us. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living in the shadow of Tyler Kane. Our dad…” he says, pointing at Trent, “… retired over ten years ago. Get over him already.”
Tyler Kane is the general manager of the Philadelphia Flyers, and Preston’s dad is the head coach. Neither of them wanted to leave the Flyers organization after they retired.
Thankfully, my dad has kept his distance from the league. He says he enjoys being home with my mom and is her muse. She’s a famous erotic romance author, so I’m glad I’m not home. Because being her muse means…
Gross.
“Right,” I interject. “It’s fucking bullshit. My dad’s shutout against the Blackhawks in game seven has been in highlight reels since I was a kid.”
“They won the Cup, though,” Tucker says. “That game was sick.”
No one understands the complexity of our lives. Our teammates think we’re lucky or blessed to have pro hockey players in our family. But their legacies are hard acts to follow. Our fathers bred us to become hockey players. They forced us to be better than them—as if that’s possible.
“Are you coming this weekend?” Tucker asks Preston.
He cocks his head at him. “To the dance contest?”
“Yeah. All the sorority chicks are dancing for money.”
“Count me in,” Trent says.
“I’ll be there,” I add.
Preston laughs. “Like any of you would miss half-naked girls dancing on bars.”
“You bringing Coach Bryant’s daughter?” Trent asks Preston.
He bites the inside of his cheek. “Bex is meeting my mom. I doubt she’ll come to the club with me.”
“Get her there,” I interject.