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)
Coach has jokes? Now? When he’s telling me that my dream of back-to-back league championships is dead in the water?
“Fuck.” The curse isn’t directed at Coach this time. I’ve got my wits about me enough to know that’s unacceptable. But directing it at the ceiling isn’t much better.
“I’m sorry, Dominic. But if you want to keep playing—which we both know you do—this is happening.”
I take a measured breath and slowly exhale as resignation sinks in. Meeting Coach’s eye, I admit, “I don’t want to go. This is home for me.”
He nods in understanding. “I know, kid. But this is the name of the game in pro hockey. You go where they pay for you to be.” Admittedly, a bit of a cynical outlook, but he’s not wrong. “Just don’t do too good of a job saving Kipson. I plan on the Hawks winning again this season, with or without you.”
The subtle jab makes me smile tightly, back on confident ground. “Good luck with that, Coach. You know the only reason we won last year was because of me,” I brag, aiming for my trademark cockiness but coming up short.
“I know,” he agrees, smiling warmly. We both know it was a team effort that required every Hawk doing their part, but I appreciate him letting me save face a little bit because this feels like I’m being dismissed as the weak link, the one they don’t need. “It won’t be the same here without you, Lee. The Blizzard is damn lucky to get you.”
He stands and holds his hand out. I rise, taking his hand in mine and shaking it firmly. “It’s been an honor, Coach.”
“The honor’s all mine. Now go kick some sense into Kipson and I’ll see if I can getcha back next season.”
It’s nothing more than a polite pleasantry, but it does keep a tiny light of hope lit in my soul. Maybe I can get back home—to my team, to my family, to my life—soon.
Chapter 1
Dominic
Sitting in my truck in the parking lot, I stare at the pair of double doors like they’ve offended my entire family line, and snarl at the garish neon-green sign above them proclaiming “O’Neal’s” as though the double apostrophes are bullets straight to my brain. To be fair, neither the sign nor the doors have done anything to me. It’s what they represent.
They’re the portal to this new phase of suckage that is my life. My life, which was going stellar until a few weeks ago, when I suddenly had to sublet my place, pack up my truck with most of my shit, and move to a short-term rental in a city where I don’t know anyone or anything.
And yeah, the generic cc on a “welcome back” email from a team I don’t even know is pretty much the cherry on top of this shit sundae. No assistance on moving, no star treatment, nothing. Since it’s not a mid-season trade and I’m not a hot young draft pick, I’m ignored to the point that I don’t even want to get to know these assholes.
Fuck this. I’m only going to be here for a season, and then I’m going home.
But I am a man who enjoys a mission, so I studied up and did my homework like a good little soldier. Mission: Yank Mike Kipson’s head out of his ass, slap him stupid, and get myself traded back to the Hawks as soon as possible.
With that in mind, I stride across the parking lot, sling open the door, and enter O’Neal’s, switching out my grim-set mouth for the fakest of fake smiles. “Let’s do this shit,” I grumble to myself.
The bar is surprisingly welcoming, with dark wood floors, green-globed chandeliers, and a dozen small round tables surrounded by guys. I don’t head there. Instead, I go straight for the bar along the wall. I need a drink for this.
“Whiskey, beer back. Whatever you have is fine,” I tell the bartender. She sets a shot glass in front of me and I swallow it in one go, welcoming the burn. Taking a sip from the beer so it won’t spill, I approach my doom, otherwise known as the Blizzard players.
Amazingly, I’m greeted well, considering the beatings I put on a lot of these guys during the playoffs. “Dom!”
“Hey, man! Heard you were joining us!”
“Welcome to the best team in the league.”
The guys seem friendly enough, a bit rowdy even if I’m being honest, but that last one I can’t let slide. “You mean the second-best team. Hawks won the Cup last season,” I boast, proud of the accomplishment.
Anderson, the Blizzard goalie, grins like he was poking at me intentionally. “A toast to it being us this year! Welcome to the shit show.” He throws an arm around my shoulders like we’re best buds and holds up his beer.