Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
The good times roll hard and fast on the ice. We show the crowd that good time tonight, and we’ll have them jonesing for more.
“Have you seen my lucky socks?” Parker asks on his way past my stall, nerves and excitement mixing on his face. “I swear to God, some fucker moved them again.” He raises his voice as he adds, “Which isn’t fucking funny. Touch my fucking lucky socks again and I will find you and make you very, very sorry.”
“We’re already sorry,” someone calls out from across the room. “The smell makes us sorry every damned day.”
Laughter ripples through the team, making Parker’s eyes narrow.
Before he can double down on this fight, I say, “Last shower stall. Check the ledge of the small window. If you hurry, you can get them in the dryer in time.”
He slaps my hand, muttering, “Thanks, brother.” As he jogs away to retrieve his good luck totem, he shouts again, “You can all suck my balls. Those socks are the reason we’re going to win tonight! You’re welcome!”
“Ne nous porte pas la poise,” Jean-Louis, our French-Canadian transplant calls back from the stall next to mine. Turning to me, he adds, “Americans. Always inviting bad luck. What’s wrong with you?”
I lift a hand in the air “Pas moi, non, mon ami. Moi, je connais bien quand fermer ma gueule, ça c’est sûr.”
“Yeah, you do know when to keep your mouth shut. That’s one of the things I like about you, Grammercy.” He adds with a mocking grin, “That, and your cowboy swamp French. Awww…c’est trop mims.”
“That’s right, I am fucking cute.” I match his grin and friendly, ball-busting energy. “Glad you finally noticed.”
He laughs as he motions to the ceiling. “But not as cute as this shit. Oh la vache, what were they thinking? This is a locker room, not a children’s birthday party.”
He has a point. It looks like a purple and green paint factory exploded in here. Vivid purple and green Voodoo mascot banners hang from the ceiling, posters celebrating the team launch paper the walls, even the Gatorade bottles are coordinated to match.
But gaudy is part of New Orleans. We like things bright, shiny, and loud.
I tell Jean-Louis as much, he reminds me that he was raised in Paris with his mother, where people are classy, snotty, and have made criticizing everything and everyone a national pastime. We share another laugh before I return to wrapping my stick, layering on black tape, white tape, then black again.
It’s the same pattern I’ve used since I was playing in the juniors, when Beanie bought tape in bulk because I was so particular about getting it just right.
Around me, the pre-game energy continues to build. Nix bounces on his toes, earbuds blasting death metal. Parker returns from the showers with his miraculously dry—and still stinky as hell—socks in hand, talking shit about Omaha’s defensive pairings with Dyer.
Even Blue looks almost animated. I swear I hear him laugh, very softly, when Parker tells him that his socks are teaching him about Zen. He’s learning to ignore the discomfort of his nose in favor of focusing on his higher self and the fact that he’s single-handedly saving the team from bad juju while everyone else goes around washing their luck away without a care in the world.
“First fucking game, brothers!” Torrance vibrates with nervous energy as he jogs in place, keeping his muscles warm. “Let’s go!”
“Down, rookie. Heel,” Capo calls from across the room. “Save some juice for the ice.”
But I get it. The kid’s excitement is infectious. I’m feeling it too, that electric jolt to the nervous system that comes with firsts.
First game in this jersey. First time representing my city at the highest level. First time for my mama to watch me play pro hockey in our hometown in a fancy ass box seat, just like my little queen deserves.
First time with Elly and Mimi in section 102, ready to cheer their lungs out for their new roommate…
I already know they’ll be hollering louder than anyone else.
They’re hardcore for hockey, those two.
And I’m getting increasingly hardcore for the Thibodeaux girls. Living with them these past four days has been one hell of a surprise.
But a good surprise, the kind that makes you think maybe someone up there is looking out for you, after all. It just feels so good to have them in my home, in my life.
Like last night on the terrace…
I was grilling chicken to go with a salad Elly was making in the kitchen, and sharing a fancy water with Mimi while she helped me cook. She calls seltzer water garnished with a lime wedge “fancy” water and likes to have a glass with me before dinner, while we catch up on all the school and locker room gossip. She told me about the boy in her class who keeps getting in trouble for making fart jokes. I told her about Torrance, who also makes fart jokes—some boys never grow up—before we moved on to more important news like her entry into the school art competition and my preparations for the opening game.