Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Josh rolls with it. “Okay. Lay it out for me.”
“Sixty-seven percent of the time he passes to the right wing instead of the left wing players. It seems like Montreal figured that out, so they kept putting their strongest players on the right during the last game.”
Josh is silent for a moment before he mutters, “Damn. You’re right. Why didn’t we see that last game?”
Because my head is all over the place, and I didn’t put it together until I watched the replays and made notes on Parker, but I keep that part to myself. “There were a lot of chippy play distractions. But when Parker relies on the left wing for passing, he’s fifty percent more likely to make a shot on net. Especially if he’s on the same line as Mason. If we can make Parker aware of the pattern, we can start to use it to the team’s advantage.”
“Okay, this is good stuff, Miles. We can talk to Coach Davis about this and make a plan to tackle it with Parker.”
Parker is young, and very, very good on the ice. But he’s also a Gen Z kid, and his entire life he’s been told he’s amazing by his parents. It’s like they showered him in fucking confetti every time he wiped his ass. He’s always looking for praise, and constructive criticism needs to be layered carefully with a kid like him; otherwise, we can shoot his game to shit.
We meet with Coach Davis before practice to review the analytics from the last game and pull up the video footage, fast-forwarding to the goal Parker scored. Which happens to be when he passed to Mason on the left.
“If we can get Parker to make a few adjustments, it’ll go a long way in helping this team get off to a solid start this season.”
Coach Davis claps me on the shoulder. “This is good stuff, Thorn.”
“Thanks.” I bite back the grin, happy to have a win amid the chaos that is currently my life. Would it have been better if I’d made the connection before last game? Absolutely, but it’s a step in the right direction and proving myself an asset to the team.
Davis pulls Parker aside and gives him some pointers, and it works, which elevates the positive energy on the ice. It’s a good headspace for the players to be in when they’re heading into a game this evening.
After team brunch, I have my allergist appointment.
I’m nervous, especially since it’s sandwiched in the middle of my workday, but if I’m stopping at my mom’s later, I’d like to know how bad this allergy is so I can plan accordingly.
“You sure you want to go on your own?” Josh asks. “I don’t mind tagging along, in case you need a ride to the hospital again. Or do you want to call Nurse Kitty?”
I shoot him a look. “You’re going to razz me forever over that, aren’t you?”
“I can’t believe she slept at your house and nothing happened.”
“I already told you, I wasn’t in any condition to try to make a move.” Also, our mutual lack of appreciation for each other only shifted after the hospital fiasco. “I gotta roll. I’ll be back in time for the game.”
He goes back to watching a replay of the team’s last game against Boston, and I head to my allergist appointment. I’m a bit anxious when they do the scratch test with cat dander. I almost expect my arm to swell to twice its size.
While it’s clear I have a cat allergy, it’s not the kind that should cause my throat to close and parts of my body to swell. I leave the office with an itchy arm and the knowledge that I can be in my mother’s house without asphyxiating. Unfortunately, I still need additional tests to find out what caused the extreme reaction.
Parker plays like a dream in the game against Boston, which means I get more positive feedback from Coach. It’s the boost I need before I head to the hospital to pick up my mother.
My mom has been moved from a regular hospital room into one of their on-site short-term care wings. It’s a middle ground between a hospital and a home. Her insurance covers it, and while it’s not quite like an apartment, it’s also not as sterile as a hospital room, either.
My mom is sitting in front of the window, staring out at the parking lot. She’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She used to braid it a lot when we were young, but I’m learning that with this disease things that were once rote become difficult, and sometimes impossible. She looks normal today, and I cross my fingers that all the good of this day continues with our visit to the home. “Hey, Mom. How’s it going?”