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)
“What’re they doing?” a guy shouts from a few seats away. He’s almost ripping his thinning hairline out by the roots as he stares at the ice in confusion.
“Fuck if I know,” another guy responds. “Come on, Blizzard! Get it together!”
Penny and I watch in horrified awe. We know how good these guys are and how hard they’ve worked to get to this level. Why would they throw it away?
“Look,” Penny whispers, pointing at the team bench.
There are two men absolutely losing their shit. One, my dad, who is yelling loudly at the guys on the ice, and two, Dominic, who is doing the same thing, but seems to be mostly focused on Tomville. Reading his lips, I think he’s telling him, “This is your shot! Don’t fuck it up!”
Dad calls something and the lines rotate out, some coming to the bench and others hitting the ice. But it seems that every line is doing the same thing, no matter what rotation tinkering Dad tries. The Blizzard are just . . . existing, not playing.
By the end of the first period, the score is Hawks 2, Blizzard 0.
As the players go back to the locker room, Penny and I lock eyes. “What is happening?”
A guy in front of us turns around, answering the question that we didn’t ask him. “They’re choking. That’s what’s happening. Fucking losers.” He looks back at the ice—the empty ice, mind you—and jeers loudly. “Booooo! Blizzard sucks!” He grins back at us like he did something cool.
Penny leans forward, her face filled with anger as she demands, “You think you could do any better?” The guy tries to scoff out a yes, but Penny doesn’t let him speak. “Let me guess, you’re a big shot in the late-night beer league you play in. Talking shit about how you could’ve gone pro if you’d wanted to while drinking way too many brews with your bros every week. Am I right?” She points at the stack of already-empty plastic cups in front of him.
The guy’s grin falls, replaced with pain from the too-on-target shot Penny took. “Fuck you, bitch.”
“You wish,” she snipes. When the guy turns back to the ice, she looks at me innocently. “What?”
“Now I understand why Dom says you need protection,” I note, amused and impressed. She’s definitely Dom’s sister. “You’re gonna get yourself beat up in here.”
She shrugs with a cocky smirk that looks shockingly reminiscent of her brother’s. “I have two monstrous defensemen and an actual mob boss in my phone contacts. What’s Kyle gonna do?” She cuts her eyes to the guy in front of us, who definitely seems to be not-listening to us and definitely not-interjecting into our conversation now.
“What are we going to do?” I ask, not sure there’s anything we can do. This is the Blizzard’s fight and we’re stuck in the bleachers.
“This,” she says, holding up a hand. “Popcorn, please.”
Which is how we end up watching the second period—anxiously shoveling popcorn into our mouths by the handful as the game devolves even further.
Every time the jumbotron screen shows a close-up of Dad, he looks on the verge of a heart attack, his face tomato red and a vein bulging in his forehead. Tomville is actually playing now so Dominic has quit shouting at him, but the rest of the team is playing in slow motion and is completely unaggressive. Even Anderson is slowing down, though I think his speed is related to exhaustion, not any team solidarity. They might as well be renamed the Sloths.
With two minutes remaining in the second period and the Blizzard down 4–1 now, I turn to Penny. “We have to do something.”
“Whatcha got in mind?” she asks, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Come on.” I grab her hand and pull her from her seat.
“Think this will work?” she whispers a few minutes later.
It took some slippery maneuvers past a few security guards, and a little bit of tossing our names in people’s faces, but we’ve managed to get down to the lower hallways where the locker room area is. There’s just one more guard to get past.
“Hey . . .” I glance at the guard’s left chest, hoping to see his name tag, but there’s just an embroidered label that says “Security.” “You,” I drawl with a smile. “I’m Briar Johns, Coach Boothe’s daughter.”
He chuckles, unconvinced. “Coach Boothe doesn’t have kids. Think he’s on his fifth or sixth wife.”
“Fourth,” I correct. “Vanessa.”
He snaps his fingers, nodding. “Oh yeah. That one’s sticking around longer than usual. But he’ll be on wifey five before long. He always is.” But he pins me with a stare. “No kids, though, so move along,” he orders, pointing back down the hallway we came from.
“Did you know Griffin Mahoney signs autographs again?” Penny asks casually. She turns, moving her hair to show the guard the signature on her jersey. Griffin didn’t sign autographs for years, so anything he has signed is an extremely valuable collector’s item.