Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Once our snowman—dubbed “Mr. Frosty” by Cooper—is assembled and decked out with a carrot nose, stick arms and stone buttons, Farren grins mischievously at Rafferty. “You know, this snowman could use some company,” she says, and without warning, scoops up a handful of snow and lobs it at her brother.
“You did not just do that!” Rafferty exclaims, looking down at the snow splattered across his chest. He scoops up his own ammunition, his eyes twinkling with challenge. “It’s on.”
Within moments, the peaceful snowman-building session turns into an all-out snowball war as we take sides. Me and Rafferty against Farren and Cooper. Snow flies through the air, laughter and shrieks echoing through the yard. I dodge a snowball from Farren, retaliate with one of my own, and suddenly find myself caught in a crossfire between Rafferty and Cooper.
Rafferty cocks his arm to hurl one at his sister but sees an incoming missile from Cooper. He steps in front of me, taking the hit in his shoulder. He winks at me, and I laugh, feeling a rush of affection for him. “So gallant.”
“Anything for you,” he says, and then another snowball hits him in the face.
He turns slowly to face my brother, an evil smile curling his lips. “That’s it… you’re in for it now.”
Cooper shrieks and takes off running in an attempt to hide behind the snowman but Rafferty’s too quick. He’s on him, pelting him with ball after ball until Cooper cries uncle, laughing so hard he’s crying.
We don’t last long, the cold eventually driving us in. Once we get our boots off in the mudroom and out of our soaked outer layers, I head into the kitchen. “I’ll make hot chocolate.”
“And can we have cookies?” Cooper asks, running past me to the staircase. “I’m going to get my pajamas on.”
“Of course,” I say with a laugh, charmed he’s at ease enough with our guests to get comfy in his jammies. Farren follows me into the kitchen but Rafferty veers into the living room to go hang out with my mom.
As Farren plates cookies and I put milk on to boil, she says, “I’ve not ever seen my brother like this before.”
I glance at her curiously. “Like what?”
She shrugs as if she can’t quite articulate it, but attempts in simple words. “Happy. Content. Boyish.”
“I can attest to that,” I say and then amend, “Except the boyish part.”
“He’s in love,” Farren says, and I jerk, turning to face her. She grins at me. “It’s true. Mark my words.”
I stare at her because… well, if that’s the case, will he tell me himself?
“And you care for him deeply too,” she observes. “This is the real deal.”
“It feels very real,” I admit. “And I’m terrified.”
“Rafferty will never hurt you. He doesn’t have it in him.”
“No, he doesn’t.” It’s one of the things I know without a doubt.
“I suppose I should start telling you a bunch of embarrassing things about him, huh?” she says with an evil smile.
“Now does seem like the appropriate moment,” I say in a conspiratorial whisper.
We cackle and my mom calls out, “What’s so funny in there?”
“Nothing,” I call back, winking at Farren. “Just girl talk.”
I’m not sure, but I think I faintly hear Rafferty groan and that starts me laughing even harder.
CHAPTER 18
Rafferty
My teammate Hendrix, a defenseman on the second line, is engaged to a woman named Stevie who happens to own a place called Jerry’s Lounge. It’s named after her grandfather, who opened the place, and she’s been running it since she turned eighteen. It’s become a more private type of hangout for the team. Often we’ll go across the street from the arena after a win and hang out at Mario’s in a VIP section the owners rope off. We’ll step outside the ropes and mingle with the fans, giving back to them because the Titans have the fiercest, most loyal fan base in the league.
But sometimes, we just want to be regular people hanging out. We don’t want to be famous hockey players who have to live up to a certain persona, so we gather at Stevie’s.
The patrons here are eclectic, ranging from bikers to old, retired factory workers. It’s as blue collar as you can get and our presence doesn’t seem to provoke the same frenzied excitement that we get at Mario’s. Here we can hang in the back near the pool tables and congregate around high-tops, egging each other on as we compete in billiards and darts, none of us being that great but having fun, nonetheless.
Since I joined the team, Atlas, North, King and I have often met up here for beers to relax and shoot the shit.
Tonight, we’re here to celebrate our win over the Montreal Wizards and the bar is alive with the buzz of victory. The chatter and laughter of teammates and their partners blend into a melody of celebration and the beer flows freely.