Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
The other guys skate past, their faces grim. They know Coach singles out whoever isn’t cutting it. Today, it’s me. Tomorrow, it’ll be one of them. Buttons shakes his head, his green eyes sympathetic. More often than not, he’s the one on the receiving end of Coach’s sharp comments and the butt of locker room jokes. Poor guy hates his nickname but sucks up the ridicule in a way I never could.
I usually play clean and sharp. I’m reliable. That’s what my team counts on and why Coach trusts me. I push through pain and past failure because I need to get drafted to hoist Stanley over my head. I need to prove who I am.
But today?
Today, everything grates on my nerves.
I line up for the next drill, barely registering the play we’re running. Coach blows the whistle again, and I wince at the shrillness before pushing off, channeling all my anger into cutting across the ice, trying to compensate for my hesitation. The cold bites at my cheeks as I push myself, resisting the tension in my thighs and the burn in my calves. The scrape and clatter of blades cutting into the ice behind me drives me forward. “Drayton! Heads up!”
The puck flies at me. I reach out, but it clatters off the blade and slides wide. My gut twists with the miss, but I pursue it, catching it against the boards, swearing under my breath. By the time I turn back around, Coach is staring me down, arms crossed.
“Jesus Christ, Drayton! Get it together. I need you on this. The team needs you on this.”
The words land like a slap, and my face flushes, embarrassment as biting as the cold.
You’re never going to make it with that attitude, boy. You’re never going to do better than me. Dad’s voice slices through my head and bounces around my aching skull.
I can’t look at the guys; I don’t need their pity, their disappointment. Fuck.
“I’ve got it,” I mutter, knowing Coach will catch the edge in my voice. “I’ve got it.”
Coach’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks down at his clipboard, taps his pen twice, and blows his whistle. “All right, run it again.”
I exhale hard, forcing myself to clear my head. Just play. Fucking play like you mean it. But the weight pressing on me, this stupid feeling, the words dredged from the past, spin around on a reel, impossible to shake.
I tighten my grip on my stick, watching the puck get passed down the line. When it comes to me again, I don’t hesitate. This time, I accept the pass cleanly, firing it down the ice hard and fast. The clink as it hits the post and ricochets in should be satisfying. It’s a solid shot.
But it’s empty.
It’s been years since I let anything off-ice screw with my game. Years since I let my head get messed up enough to affect my skills. I catch Hayes staring at me, his eyes questioning. He’ll want to talk it through later, and so will Shawn, and I’ll close them down. I love my brothers, and we’re close, but my inner world is mine alone. There’s too much damage beneath the surface, too many landmines they’d step on. Too much I don’t ever want to think of.
Coach nods. “That’s more like it.”
But the words don’t sink in. I skate back down the ice, watching the others run their own drills, moving like parts of a well-oiled machine. I’m the only cog that’s sticking.
By the time Coach’s whistle finally signals the end of practice, I’m already pulling off my helmet, flicking back my sweaty hair, running a gloved hand over my damp, aching forehead, and skating off before I can get drawn into the usual post-practice banter.
Back in the locker room, I sink onto the bench and rip off my gloves, hands stinging, and fresh anger simmering beneath my skin. I shouldn’t have let this situation get to me. I should be able to manage stress better than this.
Skarsgard, a younger player I barely know but is proving to be my biggest competition, shoots me a wary glance, probably worried I’ll take my frustration out on the lockers.
I clench my fists, forcing myself to sit still and contain the bubbling in my chest and the fist-sized lump in my throat. I don’t need to give Coach Thornton more reasons to doubt me. Mindset is a vital part of being a top player. Skill can only take me so far.
I just need to get out of here, clear my head, and figure out how to get my game back on track.
That’s going to mean telling my brothers again, in no uncertain terms, that Riley is a thing of our past and making it clear to her she’s not welcome in our lives.