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)
Dominic is halfway across the rink when I find him again, but when I do, his eyes are already locked on me. Or did they ever leave me? I give him a big smile and two thumbs-up. Instantly, I decide the thumbs-up is weird and switch to clapping, but that must look odd, too, because Dominic grins before turning his attention to the teammates around him.
Hockey has never fully held my attention unless Harley was on the ice. I watch my baby like a hawk. But pro games? I find myself scanning the crowd, watching the mascots, dancing in my chair to the snippets of music between plays, and basically entertaining myself with random stuff until the game is over.
Not tonight.
I’m laser focused on what’s happening.
I notice a few things pretty quickly. Dad is starting Dominic tonight, rare for a new player, but with Dom’s playing history, nobody is surprised. Mike Kipson’s been chirping at Wayne Anderson since they hit the ice, while Anderson keeps silently waving Kipson off. I get the feeling that behind his goalie’s arm shield, Anderson is giving Kipson the bird. I don’t know what that’s about, but Kipson came out mad and only seems to be getting angrier. And Sabine and Pacholek seem to be keeping one eye on the puck and one on Kipson, a hard task when he’s behind them for the most part. Or he should be, but as soon as the puck drops, the Devils are playing hot and heavy, putting pressure on Anderson again and again.
“Score!”
Shit.
The crowd’s sound of disappointment matches the one I feel. “It’s okay,” I say, clapping my hands a little more normally now that Dominic’s not watching. “Keep at it.”
I’m cheering for the Blizzard the way I cheer for Harley, with positive affirmations and support, as if they care nearly as much as my nine-year-old does.
From what I can tell, it works. And I actually enjoy watching. Granted, I mostly keep my attention locked on Dominic, and though he does his fair share of roughhousing, the hallmark skillset of a defenseman, I can’t help but note his surprising grace and finesse. But it’s hard to ignore the action crisscrossing the ice and I find myself following along with the plays, cheering the Blizzard on with growing intensity as the game progresses.
Despite the early score by the Devils, the second period levels things, and in the third we eke out a hard-fought 2–1 victory.
“That was so awesome!” Harley yells. His hands are clenched by his face and his eyes look a bit maniacal. Someone overdid it on the sugary sodas, cotton candy, and popcorn tonight, and it’s not me.
“It was a great game,” I agree.
“Dom killed it. Did you see him with that body check on Paulson? Or the way he broke up Medvedev’s fake out and just yoinked the puck from him like it was nothing?”
“Of course I did. I’m literally right here,” I say, pointing at the seat next to his. We saw the exact same things.
“Do you think we can see the players?”
After games, players have an entire routine to go through. For some, it’s a quick shower and go. For others, it might be an hour-long process with sports medicine, cold plunge soaks, and then showering and getting dressed. I don’t know where Dominic falls in that spectrum.
Plus, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for the other players to see me. In the crowd during the game, I blend in and am relatively anonymous. But standing in a fan line for up-close pictures and autographs? They’d recognize me and probably tell Dad that I was here. If I was a good liar, I could say I came to support him. But I’ve never been able to lie without some kind of tell giving me away, and that would lead to more questions. Ones I’m not prepared to answer.
“I don’t think so, honey. It’s late. We can send Dominic a text to thank him again.”
I don’t get the chance to send a politely worded thank-you that Miss Manners would be proud of, though. Before I do, my phone dings.
I have to deal with some shit, but can I come over after? I know it’s late, so it’s okay if not. But I’d like to see you.
He wants to see me?
I try not to squeal like a teenage girl whose crush just sent her a WYD, girl? text. Mostly because Harley is looking at me weirdly. So maybe I did make a noise? Oops! But also, because I’m a full-grown adult who is not freaking out over a man wanting to come over after dark.
That’s fine. Let me know when you’re on your way.
I stare at the message, making sure I didn’t misspell anything and that it sounds as nonchalant as I want it to, as opposed to the ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod chaotic energy I actually feel. I add my address and hit send.