Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I think about them on the way to the New York arena for a Saturday afternoon game.
But that’s the problem. I can’t have a woman on my mind when I’m playing, especially against my former team. I want to do well against everyone, but I especially want New York to miss me hard.
I liked it here in the city. Liked the fans. Liked the camaraderie. Tried not to take it personally when they traded me last season. I had the stats. Had the skills. Had the ability to play well here. Am I pissed they let me go? Hard to be when I’m playing even better in San Francisco.
Their loss—my gain.
Still, I want to show them it’s their loss. That’ll take my mind off those goddamn pictures too. When we reach their arena, I laser in on hockey, only hockey.
New York wins the face-off and charges down the ice ferociously, their center hell-bent on scoring early. He slams the puck toward Max, and like it’s invisible, the black disc flies right past our goalie. Well, shit.
The lamp lights in the first fifteen seconds. That won’t do. That won’t do at all.
Maybe I’m having a delayed reaction to the trade, but fuck them for not needing me. Screw them for casting me off. I’m not letting my new team lose to my old team.
When the line changes, I hop over the boards, single-minded in my pursuit of one thing and one thing only—a win. Whatever it takes.
Maybe I’m a little hungrier since it hasn’t been the greatest series of away games. It’s a rare week when we play four games. We’ve played two since our win in Vegas and lost both. I’d really like to salvage this trip and return to San Francisco evened up on this road trip.
As we’re jostling in the corners, I get knocked into the boards. They get the puck, and New York rushes ahead toward center ice. I’m flying there seconds later. But Alexei snags the puck from their forward, then passes it back to me as I spin around. I’ve got it, and I skate toward their net as fast as I can. But the toughest defenseman on the New York team—a big, mean guy named Karlsson—strips me of the puck when I’m this close to the net.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
He flashes a dickhead smile. “Looks like you missed us. Can’t say the same.”
I know this drill. I was on the same side of it when I played with him. Guy is mouthy. And yet, I’m letting it get to me since I’m clenching my jaw as I hop off the ice.
My annoyance skyrockets, though, in the second period when Karlsson’s blocking my every move, knocking me into the boards, chirping at me with real winners like “Guess you went soft on the West Coast” and “We traded you just before you started sucking.”
He’s always been such an asshole, but I vastly preferred it when he was an asshole to others.
Irritation pours through my veins, but I do my best to ignore it. A few minutes later, after Asher flips the puck to me, I try to get a shot on goal, and I’m this close, I swear I’m this close. But Karlsson barrels toward me and I rush the play, colliding with their goalie instead of slipping a puck past him.
Fuck me.
I grit my teeth, knowing it’s coming—a two-minute penalty for goaltender interference. I hit the box and stew.
Should I have tried to avoid contact? Yes. You can’t take a shot while messing with the goalie’s ability to defend the net.
And yet I did. Because of a former teammate’s trash talk throwing me off.
The New York fans are chanting power play, but the guys on my side hold them off. Thank fuck I didn’t make it worse for my team. When I’m out of the box, I try to shove whatever residual emotions I didn’t think I’d have far, far away.
Like to the South Pole far.
Once I’m back on the bench a few minutes later, Coach McBride comes over and gives me a chin nod. “Put that out of your mind, Bryant. Got that?”
It’s said gruffly but without judgment. Like he understands but needs me to move the hell on. Fair enough.
“Yes, sir,” I say, then narrow all my focus to the game.
When I’m back on the ice and get a shot on goal again, I refuse to mess it up this time. Hard and aggressively, I send the puck flying till it lodges in the twine, taking no prisoners.
Yes!
That ties it up, and in the third period, Chase scores to seal a messy win. It’s exhausting, but that’s hockey for you. The best part is when I leave the arena, heading toward the team bus, and my phone buzzes with a text.
Josie: Fuck Karlsson.
A smile has me in its grip. Immediately, I’m picturing Josie at our next game, parked in a seat on center ice, cheering me on and heckling the other team. That thought revs my engine—her ferocity. I would love to play with her in the house.