Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Do you know how to do this, or will it be like the blind leading the blind?”
“First year playing for Providence, I took a hard fall and got a concussion. Each game, I snuck into the DJ booth to watch. I was supposed to stay away for at least two weeks, but something you need to know about me is I live and breathe hockey. The arena DJ let me play with the controls.”
I was also half-convinced at the time my career was over, so I might have been melodramatic in needing to learn a new skill. I won’t mention that aloud though.
“If you help me fake my way through my first game tomorrow, I’ll blow you.”
I try to cover my uncomfortableness with an easy smile. “There’s that being blunt thing again.”
Jet winks. “Don’t worry. I freak my brother’s teammates out with that too. Messing with straight guys is fun.”
The way he eyes me, I sense he’s testing me in some way, or maybe I’m being paranoid.
“Right. And you’re, like, a baby. Way too young for me.”
He cocks his head. “Interesting. I assumed you would’ve been more concerned that I had way too much penis for you …”
It’s my turn to break into laughter. “Your reputation precedes itself, JJ.”
“Ugh. You’ve been talking to my brother, haven’t you?”
“He might’ve called to thank me for getting you a job here.”
Matt warned me not to call Jet JJ, but Jet offered to blow me to fuck with me. I’d say we’re even.
“Do you know anything about DJing a hockey game?” I ask.
He stares at me blankly.
“Anything at all?”
“Well, I know this button”—he points to the red switch I flipped off—“turns on the mic to the arena.”
“Play transitions, motivating the home crowd with song choice, dissing the opposing team—”
“I have to pay attention to the game?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, and the way he smirks, I get the feeling he’s still messing with me.
Today’s going to be a long day.
I try to drown out the noise of the crowd, but they can smell victory. All I can smell is sweat. Any hockey player who waxes poetic about the smell of the ice is lying his ass off. By the third period, the air is filled with the stench of pads soaked in perspiration.
As I take to the ice for a line change, my skates hit the ice with a satisfying thump before I take off at lightning speed.
We may all be exhausted and running on fumes, but this is my favorite part of the game. The fight to stay in this drives me.
We’re one up, and there’s a minute left on the clock.
But I know better than to start celebrating early, because everything can change in the blink of an eye.
As if thinking that jinxes the team, Logan—one of our D-men—takes a stupid penalty. Fucking idiot.
Toronto takes the power play as their opening, and flashbacks of practice have me on edge and cursing expletives that hockey players are known for.
The gasps of the crowd are ignored, and my only focus is on preventing the five Toronto players storming us from getting past the blue line.
That lasts about one point six seconds. I’m mowed down by a D-man, Kessler’s thrown against the boards, and I see our chance at the playoffs melt away faster than the ice under my blades.
The lamp lights up, and my heart leaps in two different directions—into my throat and to the pit of my stomach.
It’s all tied up now, and our time is running out.
The home fans protest while the Toronto players celebrate. The anger of the crowd falls into a void when Toronto gets the puck again.
Winning this is still an option, but we’re too busy trying not to lose this thing to come up with offensive strategies. We’re still one man down and overworking defense.
My teammates’ defeat is what the Dragons are known for. The team is utterly dejected, exhausted, and cracking under the pressure. I hate that it’s happening this late in the game. We had it.
I skate my damn legs off with nothing but determination on turning this around. While the others are trying to clear the puck out of our zone, I’m busy trying to get the puck back in our possession.
In my head, the interception happens flawlessly and in slow time. It’ll be on highlight reels for years to come with a heroic soundtrack behind it. In reality, it’s a messy dive for the puck, and I’m lucky I stay upright on my skates. But the important part is I pull it off.
Everyone in the arena gets to their feet, and the noise becomes deafening, but I can mostly tune it out.
I fly down the ice with Canada on my heels and cross the blue line.
The anticipation building in the crowd is palpable in my veins. This is what I live for.