Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Although I quickly learned not to google his name if I missed a game, because that brought up all kinds of other mentions I wasn’t prepared to see. As Chase’s major league career expanded to New York, so did his collection of photos in the gossip rags.
Like the photo I saw of Chase on a red carpet, escorting a young recording artist to the Grammy Awards. He always did like his music.
Or the pics of him at a party with a B-list actress.
Or the one where his date was a pretty Swedish snowboarder.
To protect my heart, I became a hockey-only fan of Chase’s, at least until I got married. Then I stopped watching games, because it felt disloyal. My achy heart needed a break, anyway.
“Hey, can I buy you a drink?” my neighbor asks suddenly.
Sigh. “That’s a nice offer, but I already drank my limit,” I say. “I’m switching to water.”
Without missing a beat, the bartender slides a glass of ice water onto the bar in front of me. Then he gives me a wink so fast I might have imagined it.
On the screen, the game heats up, and the loud booth in the corner starts yelling. “C’mon, fuckers! Shooooooot!”
As we all collectively hold our breath, Tremaine sends a wrister flying toward the Trenton goal. But it’s deflected. The guys in the corner all howl their disappointment.
I see a silver lining here. I watch the replay with unblinking intensity to confirm it: our captain rotating his edges before springing into action, for a speedier acceleration.
Yesss. If he keeps that up, it might just make a difference.
“Can I tell you a secret?” the blowhard beside me says. Then, without waiting for a response, he continues. “This is a hockey bar. Lot of players live in this neighborhood. Sometimes they come in here after games.”
“Really?” This is interesting enough to me that I actually glance at him.
He gives me a flirty smile. “The practice facility is a couple blocks away, so a lot of the guys live in this neighborhood. It’s real convenient. One of my favorite things about New York, the celebrities live among us.” Then he rattles off the names of a handful of players, including Chase’s.
“Fascinating,” I say, mentally filing this away, just in case Chase never answers my emails and I have to track him down after hours.
Three seconds later, though, I forget all about my neighbor. Chase gets a breakaway, and the whole bar leans forward in their chairs. I stop breathing as he sets up the pass, and…
The other team’s D-man flattens him into the boards and runs away with the puck.
Hell. I slump in my seat as a collective groan rises in the room. Chase seems a beat behind in everything he does, and his skating lacks its usual finesse.
Anyone can have an off night, but there’s just something odd about his stride this season. Chase’s skating has always been so effortless and natural. These days it looks… uneven. And there aren’t that many possible reasons. I can count them on one hand.
An injury, but his file is clear. I checked.
An inner ear imbalance. Nah.
A neurological problem. Unlikely.
It could be a plain old muscle strain, but the trainers wouldn’t let that go on indefinitely. And again, there’s nothing in his file.
Just one more possibility occurs to me. It’s just the glimmer of an idea, really. I’m mulling it over when I sense my neighbor staring at me. I feel it like a sunburn and not in a good way. “How’s your fantasy team shaping up? You gotta be careful which forwards you pick,” he volunteers. “Take Chase Merritt. He’s kinda sucking wind this season.”
I say nothing.
He doesn’t take the hint. “Merritt’s always looking for the highlight-reel goal instead of just getting pucks on net. The kid needs to simplify his game. Can’t skate for shit this season, either. If I were the coach, I’d bench him until he learns how to play the game the right way. He’s a winger, see, and—”
That’s when I snap. “Plays right wing, shoots left-handed, six feet two inches, blue eyes, a Gemini. Three-time all-star, hates mushrooms on pizza. I’m good, man. I’ve watched the Legends play before.”
There’s a deep silence to my right. Maybe that was bitchy, but it was effective.
Meanwhile, the bartender is struggling not to laugh out loud. I see his back shaking when he leans over the cooler.
But it’s plain to everyone—even the twit on the next barstool—that something has changed with Chase’s game. I’d like to be the one who figures out what.
I pull out my phone and open the browser, calling up last year’s production. When I compare it to this season’s, the result is grim. His detractors have a point.
Chase, buddy, we’ve got some work to do.
Chase’s stats go back for years, so a simple flick of my thumb brings me back in time to Chase’s first year in college—the year before we met. He was a superstar even then. And then after our summer he… Hmm. I zoom in and frown.