Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“What’s up?” I already know the answer to the question, but I figure I might as well open the door and let Dom in. I’m a shitty friend who’s broken his trust, but I’m willing to face the consequences for my actions head-on. I deserve every last one of them.
“What’s up? Are you serious, man?” Dom snaps, his public charm falling away. “I saw you on the ice tonight. You were distracted as hell and violent as fuck. And before you argue that’s your job as enforcer, that is not what tonight was. You were on a search and destroy mission, and whether the Torches will be feeling the effects of that or not, you were taking risks that should’ve gotten you kicked out of the game. You’re damned lucky you didn’t end up on the injury list,” he says. “The way you were going after the Torches? Normally I’d ask if one of them fucked your mom, or your sister, or wife, but since that’s not an issue, what the hell is?”
He’s not yelling at me about Penny? But about the game? Okay, that’s also unexpected, but I don’t argue with him. There’s no point. He’s right.
My jammed-up finger wasn’t the worst of it tonight, just the most obvious injury since I popped it back into place on ice. Hell, they showed the replay of me doing it on the jumbotron. But getting my head bounced off the plexiglass during one of my little body checks will definitely have them hunting me down for another concussion check before tomorrow night’s game, even though I already passed one mid-game. Not because I’m in real danger, but again, it’s a check mark on someone’s list. Is Mahoney safe to take another shot for the team? As if I’d ever say no.
“Nothing. Just playing.”
“No, you weren’t. You were out there trying to destroy yourself. And I’m not gonna let that happen,” Dom declares, as if he alone can stop that from happening. “The season is too important for you to fall apart now, so whatever’s fucking up your mind, you need to let that shit go. Pull an Elsa outta your ass or whatever you gotta do. But let. It. Go. The team needs you. I need you.”
He’s right. Hockey is what I’m good at. It’s basically all I’m good for. I’ve got to focus on the season, on winning against the Torches again tomorrow and prepping for the playoffs. I can’t let my team down.
“You’re right,” I concede, still expecting him to pick up one of the golf clubs and knock me over the head with it. That would definitely have me sitting out on concussion-watch protocol.
“You need to hit something? Hit those.” Dominic points at the golf ball teed up in front of us.
Is that why he brought me here? To hit something, to unleash my anger in a healthy way? It sounds like it.
I’m not a golfer. I didn’t grow up with a father who took me to the country club to hit balls, and though I worked in school, it sure wasn’t as a caddie. But a club isn’t so different from a hockey stick, and a ball is like a small puck, so what the hell.
I get up, still hesitant to give Dom my back, considering the Penny situation, but I’m beginning to think she really hasn’t told him and this isn’t some ploy to get me to lower my guard so he can sneak in for a death blow.
I line up the shot and do a couple of practice swings, getting a feel for the club. Thwack!
The ball goes sailing through the air in a long arc, landing just shy of the back net. I bounce my shoulders, the controlled hit feeling good. It did release some of my anger.
“Feels good, huh? Do it again.” Dom sounds like Mr. Miyagi telling the Karate Kid to keep practicing.
I hit another ball, then another, and another. Each time I line up the shot, I take a deep breath, letting my focus center on the ball before swinging as hard as I can. I’m not going for precision, trying to get the ball into some tiny hole. I’m going for distance by hitting with as much power as I can generate.
Andrew arrives with our food, and I sit back down across from Dominic. When we dig in, the only sounds breaking the silence are us chewing and swallowing as much as possible as fast as possible.
“Now that that’s out of the way”—he points at the tee with his fork—“what’s really going on with you?”
“What do you mean?” I say slowly.
Shit. I knew it was too good to be true. Gut punches on a full stomach are gonna hurt even worse. Maybe that was his diabolical plan all along? Knowing Dominic, probably so.