Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I hold my fucking ground.
“I am doing it the right way,” he argues, his tone catching the attention of the other guys who’d been finishing up their drills.
Lawson being one of them. He skates closer, but I give a slight shake of my head hoping he interprets that as I've got it.
“Whether you want to believe it or not,” I say. “I’m on your side.” I point to the Badger sweatshirt I currently wear. “I’m a part of this team. I want you to win. I’m not telling you these things to hurt your precious ego. I want you to beat the Sharks—”
“The way you talk about the Sharks makes me highly doubt you want us to beat them.” He sneers down at me. “In fact,” he continues. “It sounds more likely that you're fucking one of them. Is that how you know so much about them?”
One second Waller is standing before me wearing a shit-eating grin and the next he disappears, hitting the ice with a loud thunk.
Lawson is on top of him and throws a punch, which doesn't do much damage since they're in full gear, his gloved hand hitting Waller's helmet, but the two immediately descend into a scrap.
“Stop it!” I yell, but they totally ignore me.
Pax is the first one to grab hold of Lawson, yanking him off of Waller and getting him to calm down. But even with Pax holding him back, and a rookie holding Waller back, the two keep trying to go at each other.
“Talk to our coach like that again and I’ll knock your fucking teeth out!” Lawson yells as he struggles under Pax and now Nash’s hold.
“Fuck you, Wolfe,” Waller fires back. “Maybe you're the one fucking her and that's why you're always on her side.”
“Hey!” Kiplin's voice rings out over the yelling as he skates from all the way across the rink where he'd been with a separate group that Coach Hardin was overseeing. He stops in the middle of the two brawling men. “You watch your fucking mouth, Waller,” Clay says, his rough tone leaving no room for arguing. “You don't talk about Coach Wren like that. In fact, I'm going to incite a new rule—don't talk about her at all unless you're saying yes, Coach Wren. Do you understand me?”
Waller straightens up, obviously respecting the captain's words, and not mine.
Coach Hardin skates up behind Kiplin, and shame ripples over me as he gives me that fatherly look of disappointment and confusion as he assesses the situation.
“Waller, Wolfe, my office. Now.” Dad doesn't need to raise his voice; he has that authoritative tone that’s filled with more disappointment than anger. Something I always found much more devastating than if he ever yelled at me. Which he never did. He just isn’t a yeller.
Pax releases Lawson, who doesn't bother looking my way as he skates off the rink, Waller following behind, who does look at me with equal disdain as before.
“The rest of you hit the showers,” Dad dismisses the rest of my group, and I move to skate away, hoping to escape him—
“Coach Wren,” he calls, and I immediately stop. “Twenty minutes, and then I'd like to see you in my office too.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say, skating off of the ice, my head hanging just a little bit lower.
I’m so screwed.
Twenty minutes feels like two hours by the time I make my way into my father's office. There are a few straggling players left in the locker room, but Lawson and Waller are nowhere to be seen.
I allow myself to enjoy that little amount of relief, knowing that sitting between the two arguing men would’ve been an absolute nightmare of an awkward situation.
My father sits behind his desk, looking as calm as he always does, one of his many Bangor Badgers tracksuit jackets zipped up almost to his neck, his mustache pristine, and his eyes open.
I take a seat across from him, my heart sinking into my stomach. I’m ten years old again and about to get a lecture on why we don't go skating after dark on the frozen lake near our home. The ice had cracked, scaring the living daylights out of my father when he caught me, but luckily, I hadn't been hurt.
Dad lets the silence fill the room until I can hardly breathe around it, and yet I still can’t find the words to speak.
“What the heck is going on here, Blakely?” he asks, his tone even and soft. “That seemed like a lot more than just the normal teammate squabble.”
“Waller has never respected me,” I answer, opting for a little bit of the truth. “Today that disrespect spilled over. I was handling it, and then he said something crass and Lawson—Wolfe—stepped in.”
My father doesn’t miss the way I say Lawson's first name with such familiarity, if the puzzle pieces clicking into place behind his eyes are any indication.