Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Pass tape to tape.
Evade Goonie Tune 1.
2.
Slip between Cap’s legs.
Keep the biscuit crossing my path left and right and left and right, forcing my face to wildly whip back and forth in desperation to stop it from slipping past.
Sticks chop and cut and clap and slap so steadily that not losing the black dot in the sea of rapidly swinging twigs is damn near unfathomable.
In spite of the swears and insults the other team is barking at me – and the boys defending me – I keep my body in a butterfly stance, eyes searching, refusing to let the slippery little intruder slide inside.
Breathing is impossible.
Thinking is improbable.
All I have is instinct.
The vibe in the air.
Notes that only I can hear each time the sticks drop the beat in the rink.
And it’s being in tune with that tuneskie that leads to me hearing the faint swish of the puck skating across the ice, melody unstopped, meaning there’s nothing in its way.
At that moment, I swiftly kick my left leg out to collide with the post, thin blade just barely managing to pin the rubber enemy in its place.
The whistle, the buzzer, and the crowd eruption all happen simultaneously yet before my lungs can be granted the gift of air, I’m aggressively clipped in the shoulder by one of the Cheetahs during his skate off.
Boos of outrage damn near instantaneously become bellows of vengeance courtesy of Cap doing what a captain should always do.
Protect his team.
One of the biggest unspoken rules in the game is you never go after the other team’s goalie.
That’s ringing a bell you can’t fucking unring.
We’re talkin’ the dog whistle of fuck ups.
We’re talkin’ give you a triple shot of espresso when you asked for decaf level “oh shit”.
Never fuck with the goalie.
Especially if you wanna keep your gibs.
To no surprise, the zebs who should be collecting the puck from me, checking on my temperament, inspecting that I actually did stop it against Oates – and I definitely did – they’re forced to throw themselves into the belly of the scrap that reminds me of barfights back home – prompted by a little too much yager – at the very bar where I met Gillybean.
While most of the blood splattered on the ice is clearly from the player being escorted off by a panicked med member and a linesman, Cap lets his join the mess by spitting out a mouthful prior to lifting his hands in a blatant command that the crowd roars ra on top of ra until we have all cleared the area.
Regardless of the tied score and pending penalty we’re facing, the locker room is buzzing.
Swarming with revitalized determination.
Cap throwing fists did what it always does.
Reset the track.
Adjusted the tone.
Got us all back on the same verse.
Well.
Almost all of us.
Just as I finish running my fingers through my now bucket free damp hair, I solemnly state, “Sorry for fuckin’ it up out there, boys.”
Eyes from all around the room cut over to me, but it’s Cap that grumbles, “It’s not you, Groffee.” Wahl tosses him a towel to use. “You’re getting speed bagged.”
“Dummied,” the twins echo in tandem.
“We,” he whirls a pointed finger around the room, “need to step it the fuck up.” His head swivels around the space before adding, “Seychas!”
Grunts are given in agreement and comprehension alike.
“You already did that, Cap,” I mirthfully remind in between removing my upper padding to give my frame more air. “Pretty sure you broke his nose.”
The grumpy, half Russian smugly shrugs. “On vso yeshcho dyshit.”
“Yeah, he can still breathe,” Snowman loudly laughs, “through his mouth.”
“I think I saw him choking on his own tooth,” Peck cringes prior to popping an orange slice down the hatch.
“Eh,” Cap dries his face, “he’ll be fine.”
“Will you?” Snowman unexpectedly questions in my direction, pulling my attention away from what I’m pretty sure is my phone vibrating behind me. “You have been looking very ill-kilter since warmies.”
When I saw my girlfriend for the first time and couldn’t even acknowledge it?
Go fuckin’ figure.
“Off-kilter,” Wahl tries to correct.
“Doctenns say ill-kilter,” Cap casually informs.
“Why?” ponders Potato.
“Because we bloody love to complicate things,” chuckles Frosky before redirecting his stare to me. “And you need to uncomplicate things, aye?” His eyebrow waggle has me giving the back of my neck a guilty scratch. “Find your Slayer. Take a beat.”
My mouth twitches to reject the idea, to remind them that her brother – our head coach – still doesn’t know.
That he won’t know until Sunday dinner, which we need to bring dessert to.
I’m honestly thinking of calling up Grams to get the recipe for her super-secret triple berry cobbler.
I need to pull out all the stops for it.
We’re talkin’ tryin’ to win The Cup in game seven level of focus.
But for now?
For now, I need to get my head back here.