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)
The same fall I spent crying in my bedroom didn’t go so well for him. His game stats look pitiful. And the next season he disappears from Minnesota and lands on a junior team in Wisconsin—but not until February, which is really strange.
What were you up to that year?
The bar gets loud again, so I put my phone down and watch the game. But it doesn’t go where these fans need it to. In the second period, the ref makes a dumb call against Alexei Petrov for tripping. He gets a penalty, which sets my neighbor off on a rant about power plays.
And then Trenton draws blood, getting lucky with a sloppy turnover and lighting the lamp. The Legends match it at the end of the period, but then Trenton scores again in the third.
At some point I forget to take notes. I’m just watching the drama play out as my team loses its collective mojo. Coach Fairweather is pacing behind the bench, red-faced, but nothing he’s trying seems to do much good.
Chase and the other veterans take long shifts, trying to turn the tide. And then suddenly Tremaine has a breakaway. The bar is electrified.
He passes to Chase. A beautiful pass.
Chase receives it, and I hold my breath, looking for the shot. Me and everyone in this bar. “Come on, Merry!” the guys in the big round booth yell.
But the defense is closing in. Or trying to. Chase can still pull this off if he pivots and shoots.
He almost succeeds. But he gets the shot off too late, and the goalie falls on it.
The bar lets out an angry groan. We’re down a goal, with ninety seconds on the clock. The chance is lost, and Chase is the face of our disappointment.
Cursing, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes.
He’s broken, Darcy said. But how?
The only silver lining to this loss is that my irritating neighbor settles up his tab. “You have a good night, miss,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, giving him a quick smile now that he’s rising to leave.
But it proves a mistake. “Any chance I could get your number?”
Oh no you don’t. “Hey, I’d love to say yes,” I lie. “But I signed my divorce documents less than a month ago. I’m not dating for the rest of the decade.”
He has the good grace to wince. “I feel that on a deep level. Good night, then.”
After he goes, I ask the kindly bartender for my check.
He hands it over. “You’re very entertaining, Zoe.”
My eyes widen, because I haven’t even given him my credit card yet. “Do we know each other?” This guy doesn’t look like an ice skating groupie, but I guess you never know.
“There was a news piece about you today,” he says, polishing a wineglass. “First woman to ever get a coaching contract with the Legends.”
“Oh. Really?”
He grins. “You don’t have to take my word for it. Ask Uncle Google.”
So I pull out my phone and search for my own name.
You’d think that after a big career in skating, with all the photos and the profiles written about me, a few new headlines about my job wouldn’t faze me. But I’m trying to change the trajectory of my life, and this moment feels big to me. All positive reinforcement is welcome.
The items I find about me are just a couple of paragraphs long, but they’re everywhere, including on the ESPN website.
The Legends have a new skating coach. Figure skater Zoe Carson, who won a silver medal in Pyeongchang, joins the team part-time behind the bench. She’s the first female on the Legends coaching staff.
To date, no NHL team has hired a full-time female coach, but now it’s only a matter of time…
Only a matter of time! Heck yes. I’d love to break that record almost as much as I really need a full-time job.
The bartender hands me my slip to sign. Then he gives me a flirty smile. “You know, that yappy guy was right about one thing. This is a hockey bar. The players come in here some nights, just like he said.”
“That’s good intel, thank you. I’m having some trouble getting a few of them to work with me. Maybe if I ply them with liquor…”
He laughs. “Let me know what I can do to help.”
“Actually…” This probably won’t work. But I’m desperate. I return his flirty smile. “Okay, real talk. If you see Chase Merritt in here, will you tip me off? I really want to fix that guy’s stride, but he’s been kind of elusive.”
His smile fades, and he tips his head from side to side, like he’s thinking it over. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that. But give me your number, and I’ll consider it. I mean—I could always bring it up and encourage him to call you.”