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)
“Teammates,” Kipson says with a shrug before wiping his face down with a towel. But he shoots me a sideways glance, wordlessly asking, You gonna help with this shit show or not?
This game was a loss before we ever hit the ice.
From the moment we arrived, Anderson was on a rampage, sounding like a testosterone-addled rager with repetitive roars of “Let’s fucking gooooo!” that echoed through the whole locker room and chest thumping on par with the worst of Tarzan theatrics. I was surprised our sports medicine team didn’t try to stop him before his heart spasmed. Then he spent Coach’s pregame prep time shit-talking about knocking the high and mighty Hawks down a peg or two. As his coup de grâce, he got in my face, declaring that I’d better do my fucking job before boldly suggesting to Coach that maybe I should sit this one out on account of me being “he-motional.” When Kipson had told Anderson to shut the fuck up, he’d reared up at Kipson, too, going so far as to say that it was high time he started pulling his weight again, too, because the whole team had been carrying his dead weight since last year.
And while Sabine had tried to get Anderson in check, Kipson and I had silently decided we were going to do our jobs, and nothing more. Anderson could field his own damn shots. And he tried. Bless his cold, empty heart, he did. But the Hawks beat him, flat out, every time. Jacofovich especially, who has always been a beast on the ice and scored both of the Hawks’ points tonight.
“You should’ve stopped that five-hole shot, ya fucking sieve,” I snap at Anderson.
“Jack Off shouldn’t have been that close in the first place!” he barks back. “But I didn’t have any fucking defensive support. You left me hanging out there while they were crashing the net.”
“Thought you didn’t need any help. Remember?” I sneer. Throwing my voice into an approximation of his, I remind him of his pregame brags, “They won’t get shit past me. I’m gonna show ’em what it feels like to get shut out. Jack Off’s gonna get the worst edging of his life.” In my own voice, I ask, “So which is it? You’re so good you don’t need us or you suck so badly that you need us to do your job while you stand around and sip fucking tea?” I hold my hands out, weighing both options for him, though it’s a lose-lose proposition. There’s no way Anderson could’ve fended off every shot alone, and to be honest, I’m not sure all three of us playing our hardest on defense would’ve been enough. The Hawks are that good. As much as I hate to admit it, they’re even better than they were last year. Offensively, of course, not defensively.
“Where’s your rah-rah team bullshit now? Huh, Lee?” he spits out, actual spittle flying from his lip. “Is this what you call a brotherhood?”
“Oh, now you want a party invite?”
It’s a low blow. I know it as the words come out of my mouth, but I’m fucking pissed.
We had a real shot tonight. The entire team minus one player came to dinner last night. Twenty-two guys plus some of the sports med and support staff crowded into Big Boy Bowls—where I made a reservation!—and had a great meal. We talked strategy, we shared thoughts, and we hyped each other up. We were ready to go, ready to win. And it’d all gone to hell because Anderson showed up like the rottenest apple in the barrel. His tirade had set everyone on edge, and when his negativity continued on the ice with him chirping at us more than our opponents, he ruined everyone’s mental game. Including mine.
Scrubbing my hands through my hair, I growl, “Fuck.”
I take a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs to settle my mind. Calmer, I say to everyone, “Look, tonight sucked. Losing always does, but we lost in here”—I tap my temple, then point at the floor of the locker room—“and in here, before we ever hit that ice.”
I see faint nods around the room.
“I let you get to me,” I acknowledge to Anderson. “And it affected my play.”
“You’re admitting you suck?” he jabs, chuckling bitterly. “Shocker.”
“I’m admitting I could’ve played better if I’d given a shit about the man behind me. But I didn’t.” I shrug carelessly. “I don’t.” I look around at the rest of the team, who is listening closely, watching even closer. “Every other guy in this room? I’d slam my damn brother up against the boards for them. You?” I huff out a humorless laugh. “I might throw you to Honey and pop some popcorn to snack on while he fucks your shit up. That says something about us both.”