Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Right now, that was Ty.
The Bears were up three to two with six minutes left in the third period as I deked around St. Mark’s biggest threat, controlling the puck and maneuvering to the goal. Ty was on my left but I could feel the defender closing in, blocking that option. There was no one else nearby. I had two choices: take the shot myself or dump it.
Now, this was where I relied on almost two decades of training to guide me. This wasn’t rocket science. This was a low-consequence split decision. The only way to fuck it up was to lose control of the puck.
Pass, dump, shoot…what’s it gonna be?
Seconds were ticking like a time bomb, but I froze.
I fucking froze.
“Langley, dump it!” Regan shouted. “Behind you!”
“Yo, Cap…I’ll take that.” St. Mark’s D-wad stripped the puck and skated down my lane on a breakaway with every Bear in the vicinity on his tail.
And scored.
Coach wisely called for a line change, skewering me with a harsh glare. I flopped onto the bench, removed my mouth guard, and guzzled half a bottle of water.
Ty sat beside me and did the same. “What happened out there?”
Shit, I was sweating all over again—more than the lights and nonstop action called for. My hair was drenched, my socks were wet, and I was parched. I drank more water and shook my head. “I don’t know. We’ll get it back.”
We did. No thanks to me.
I didn’t touch the puck once on the play that eventually led to a score in the final minute of the game.
However, we won, and that was what mattered. I pumped up my team like I always did and gave the requisite “We got this, Bears” speech that everyone expected. No one questioned my game, but I did get a few funny looks when I suggested going to Vincento’s rather than to my house.
“No party? You okay, Langley?” some smartass piped up.
I gave him the finger and dropped my towel on my way to the showers. The hoots of laughter and the usual locker room melee were a balm to my inner frazzled state. I belonged with these guys. I was a team member, a friend, a captain.
I was somebody.
Now I just had to convince myself that losing hockey wouldn’t be the end of me.
CHAPTER 6
GUS
Whoa. This was the first Saturday I’d woken up without a hangover or a real itinerary in…weeks. After a mini Rafe sighting over coffee, where he’d reminded me for the fuckteenth time that his party started at four p.m., he disappeared to run errands. Cagey little shit. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was up to something.
Whatever.
I went to the gym, ate brunch with the guys, then hung out at Ty and Brady’s place and watched a basketball game till it was time to deal with my roommate obligation. I tried to get Brady to join me, but he passed…and reminded me that a bunch of guys were meeting up at The Tavern to see a band that allegedly didn’t suck.
“Meet us there at nine.”
I’d given him a thumbs-up, wondering if I could get away with ordering a club soda while I was out with my friends.
I turned my truck down the country lane leading to the Bluffs, a divide between the residential area where most of Smithton lived and a whole lot of farmland. Our nearest neighbor were a quarter of a mile away…unless you counted the cows and sheep grazing in the nearby field.
The row of cars at the curb and parked under a canopy of trees were the only hint that something was happening. Not necessarily a party, though. There was no heavy bass raising the roof, no laughter, no buzz of that rip-roarin’ good time Rafe had promised.
Then again, he’d mentioned inviting someone’s grandma, so I supposed I should have been prepared for anything.
Even a dozen people in my living room with their asses in the air.
O-kay…
I pushed the door open and was met with a soundtrack I associated with feel-good massages, streaming from a portable speaker. Something atmospheric and mellow, like birds chirping over the sound of wind and rain. And the petite woman in yoga gear facing the small group on mats looked like a woodland fairy, offering words of encouragement, like, “Your breath is your power. Melt your heart to your thighs.”
What the fuck?
I dropped my workout bag in the foyer and circled the group as they collectively lowered their torsos to their mats. I spied a girl with long, purple hair in the family room speaking in hushed tones to another group of yoga folks who were sitting cross-legged with their eyes closed…meditating? Rafe’s best friend, Celine, and a silver-haired woman who might have been his seventy-five-year-old buddy were there, but Rafe was nowhere in sight.
I moved on to the kitchen, where a buff dude with a bandana around his forehead greeted me with an up nod.