Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 51193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Lehane plays dirty, he’s a total dickhead, and the biggest shit-talker I’ve ever met. Preston has had issues with him for years. Lately, he’s been talking about how he wants to make him pay. But now, I can’t help but wonder what’s going on between them.
Lehane taunts Preston, both of them nudging each other, scrambling for the puck. Keeping my distance, I watch as Tucker appears at Lehane’s other side. A quick squabble ensues between Preston and Lehane, which gives Tucker enough of an opening to steal the puck.
As Lehane turns to go after Tucker, Preston does something uncharacteristic and pushes him into the boards. He smashes Lehane’s face into the Plexiglas, holding him there with his gloved hand. The referee calls a penalty as he should. Five minutes for boarding gets Preston thrown into the sin bin.
The linesmen have to pull Preston and Lehane apart. One of them tugs at Preston’s jersey, skating toward the penalty box. Now, we’re down a skater for the next five minutes.
Way to go, Prez.
I shoot daggers in Preston’s direction.
He glares at Lehane, who’s headed toward his team’s bench.
After killing Boston’s power play, Preston’s back on the ice with me. And again, Lehane is all over him. What the fuck is with these two? Preston has the puck, and Lehane sweeps his stick at his leg. I expect the ref to call a penalty on Lehane for slashing, but Boston gets the home advantage.
Preston scrambles to keep possession of the puck, and when he has a clear shot to Tucker, he passes it. Tucker takes off down the ice. He’s one of the fastest players on our team. With seconds on the clock, he shoots the puck, and I mentally cross my fingers.
We need this win. The puck hits the back of the net, and Tuck scores the winning goal. As the goal horn blares, the arena erupts into a series of boos and cheers. We’re in Boston and just beat the home team, so it’s expected. The few rounds of applause we receive are from the few people who traveled from Strick U for the game, Bex and Taylor among them.
We huddle together, celebrating our victory, patting each other on the back and helmets. I look around for Preston—he’s nowhere in sight. My gaze falls to where he once was with Lehane.
I stare in shock at Preston as he rips off his gloves and punches Kellan Lehane in the face. The game is over. We won. He needs to act like the team captain, but he’s blind with rage over Lehane. Preston’s taking this too far.
I tug on Trent and Tucker’s jerseys, dragging them over to pull Preston off him. Lehane’s face is a mess. Blood and sweat mix, running down his face onto his jersey and the ice. Trent and I get a good hold on Preston and pull him off Lehane.
Coach Bryant is behind us yelling at Preston. Bex is in the stands with her hands covering her mouth. She taps on the glass, eyes wide in shock. Preston glances over at her, shaking his head.
Was the fight because of her?
Did he just piss away his career over a girl?
* * *
One week has passed since the Boston Massacre. That’s what I have jokingly called it since Preston broke Kellan Lehane’s nose and killed his career. He’s suspended from the league, which means his dreams of going pro are now over.
Coach Bryant reamed him out over the suspension. He’s even taken it out on us, forcing us to practice every day. We have no breaks until the end of the season. Preston still won’t tell us why he beat the shit out of Kellan Lehane.
I rush downstairs when I hear a knock on the front door, not surprised to find Bex on the other side. She’s been stopping by to check on Preston. He won’t talk to her. He broke three of his knuckles and sprained his hand. That’s how hard he hit Lehane. But I don’t see what Bex has to do with any of this.
I force a smile for Bex’s benefit. She looks terrible, as if she hasn’t slept in days, mirroring Preston’s disheveled appearance lately.
“Preston is sleeping,” I lie.
Every time she’s stopped by this week, I’ve had to lie for Preston. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s acting like an asshole toward her for no apparent reason. She didn’t force him to ruin his career.
Bex tries to hide her disappointment, but it’s written all over her face. “Can you relay a message for me?”
Leaning against the doorframe, I shove a hand through my hair to push it off my forehead. “Yeah. What do you want me to tell him?”
Preston hasn’t been to class in a week. He refuses to leave the house and barely ventures out of his bedroom. I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s as if he has given up on life.