Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
His smile returns. “Yeah? Thanks, Dom.” He frowns and clarifies, “Can I call you Dom? Seeing as we’re teammates and all, ya know?”
I nod. Give him his props for now. “Sure, kid.”
If he sees NHL gametime ice this season, I’ll be surprised, but if he’s smart, he’ll soak up everything around him and put it to use.
Coach makes us do a few more drills before sending us into the locker rooms for postpractice checks with the trainers. I’ve perfected my own routine over years, so my plan is to skip out on that and get the hell out of here, but I hear my name and turn around to see Coach waving me over from the bench.
I take a steadying breath and dutifully skate over to him, praying he doesn’t want to talk about his daughter, or our friendly conversation at the bar. And definitely not about the text she sent me or my careful response of “anytime,” an invitation she hasn’t taken me up on.
“Looking good today. What do you think of the guys?” Coach asks.
Is he serious? He wants my input on the rookies after a few days of drills? I should probably play it cool and figure out what he wants to hear and spoon-feed it back to him, but I’m too grumpy about being here to strategize that clearly, so my gut instincts spill without filter.
“Rodney’s fast as fuck,” I start, “but greener than a pasture. He’s gonna beat everyone to the puck, only to get eaten alive before he can do anything with it due to his lack of situational awareness. He needs to learn how to see the ice in order to be a center, but he’s probably the best rookie you’ve got. Bill is clunky with his back foot on pivots. Tomville needs to gain about ten pounds of muscle without losing his speed.” I should stop there. I know I should, especially given the way Coach’s eyes are glazing over with disinterest, but my mouth keeps going. “Anderson is a PR nightmare waiting to happen, which makes him dangerous for the team. What’s worse is that Sabine is a follower, so anything Anderson does, he’ll do, too, which increases their volatility and puts the team at risk. This team’s going to be known as the Paternity Suits, not the Blizzards. Pacholek might be okay, though he keeps bad company, which brings his judgment into question.”
There’s more I could say—about the Blizzard’s reputation and the way Coach fosters it, unknowingly or not; about how steady home lives create a steady team while drama-seeking, lust-fueled players who fuck around, literally and metaphorically, also tend to not take their work seriously; about his daughter and how he should’ve never let her be in a situation that she had to escape from. Thankfully, I do manage to force that back down my throat . . . for now.
He nods along with my assessments, but mostly doesn’t seem to give a shit. “And Kipson?”
“Still undecided if he’s salvageable,” I declare flatly. “He’s angry, and if he can use that fire, it could work. If he goes self-destructive, he’ll take the whole team with him.”
“Don’t let that happen.” Coach points a finger at me like that’s an order, but if it’s as easy as that, then why the fuck do they need me? Clenching my jaw, I grunt in acknowledgment.
I’ve had plenty of orders in my career, but this one sits wrong. The main thing I want to save lately isn’t the team, it’s the woman who looked at me like I was really worth something.
“Hustle up,” I tell the two guys drag-assing behind me as I check my watch. “You’ve got just over an hour before you need to be in bed. That gives us thirty minutes to eat, so that you can get home to shit, relax, and jack off before lights out.”
“Living the dream,” Rodney proclaims through a blissful smile, but he does pick up the pace to get to the door first.
He holds it open for me and Tomville to walk through first.
“I haven’t found my new usual yet, but this place will do in the interim,” I tell the guys as we get in line at a Chipotle close to the team’s practice facility. Because once again, unlike the Hawks, the Blizzard is cheaping us out. For the Hawks, preseason camp meant buffet meals catered with good food. For the Blizzard? A tub of weight gain powder and free milk. The farts alone can drive a man across the ice.
Back home, Griffin and I have a place we go to regularly for protein bowls. But in a pinch, or when we travel, any basic rice and meat place will work. I’ve even gone into sit-down restaurants and asked them to pile rice and whatever protein they serve on a plate and charge me however they need to. The point is food, and food is fuel for our bodies to withstand the hell we put them through.