Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“This is ridiculous.”
“Just say it. And then say… How about… Hockey is a physical game, but it’s important to show young players that aggression should be kept within the rules and used in a controlled, respectful way.”
Through clenched teeth, I repeat her little speech back at her. And it’s ironic to pontificate about the need to rise above the violence when I’d like nothing more than to hit that camera out of that dude’s hands right now.
“Perfect. Thanks, William.”
“Will,” I mutter as she strides off.
Beckett, who’s been lurking nearby, joins me on the bench. His lips quirk at whatever he sees on my face.
“Save it for the ice,” he murmurs.
He knows me well.
I try to shut out the voices. Marjorie is now interviewing Austin Pope, a sophomore forward, who looks like a deer caught in the headlights. He keeps fidgeting with the microphone on his jersey until Marjorie finally snaps, “Stop that.”
The woman recovers fast, taking a calming breath before donning her professional journalist voice.
“So, Austin,” she says. “You played for Team USA in the World Juniors last year?”
“Yeah.”
“How did it feel to represent your country in such a prestigious event?”
Austin blinks. “I dunno. I, uh, I just, you know, played hockey.”
Someone snickers.
“That wasn’t the question, Pope,” someone else calls out.
“Sorry, what was the question?” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t like interviews. Sorry. Can I just go now?” He glances at me with a silent plea for help.
I feel my patience reaching its breaking point. This is supposed to be our time to get in the zone, not to play nice for my father’s PR machine.
Marjorie gives up, unclipping Pope’s mic and walking over to Ryder, who looks like he wants to murder me.
She introduces herself and practically forces the mic on his collar.
“Any pregame rituals you swear by?” she asks him.
Ryder shrugs. “Started listening to whale sounds this season. My wife is really into that stuff.”
The whole room erupts in laughter, and even I have to bite back a grin. The sad thing is he’s not even messing with her. Gigi is obsessed with soundscapes and got Ryder into them. He claims it helps him focus and relax.
Coach returns a few minutes later. His gaze falls on the camera, and I swear I see the veins in his neck throbbing.
“Why are you still here?” he bites out. “Go away. I need to address my men before the game.”
Marjorie’s eyes light up, but her face doesn’t move. “A pep talk? Wonderful! I’d love to get it on film if—”
“Get out!” he roars. “Now.”
The cameraman scrambles. Marjorie stammers out an apology as the duo flees the locker room. The door swings shut, its thud reverberating in the ensuing silence.
“Thank God,” groans Trager.
Coach jabs his finger in Trager’s vicinity. “Shut up. I’m talking.”
After a short and snappy pep talk containing zero pep, the room empties out. Guys lumber into the tunnel toward the rink. I linger, grabbing my phone.
Still no message from Charlie. I guess that meetup isn’t happening. The shitty notion matches my foul mood.
I call my dad and get his voicemail. Of course. Anger sizzles up my spine as I call his assistant instead. Alessia picks up instantly. Of course.
“Will. What can I do for you?”
“I need you to pass a message to my dad,” I answer curtly. “He needs to tell his camera crew to back off.”
“Have they been intruding?” She sounds startled.
“Of course they have!” I snap, then lower my voice after I hear it bouncing off the walls. “We’ve got a game tonight. We shouldn’t be answering dumb questions, okay?”
“Will—”
I don’t even know what I’m mad about, so I just hang up on her.
Fuck.
Even when I’m only speaking to his proxy, my father never fails to make my blood boil.
The obnoxious interviews should have been the end of it. But no. Dad’s cameraman isn’t done with us yet. Turns out Dean Allen gave the dude permission to film from our home bench, a last-minute decision that sends Coach Jensen into a rage spiral.
I can’t focus during warm-ups, knowing the camera is zoomed in on every move I make. Knowing I’m the reason Coach is pissed. I skate hard, trying to shake the tension. The sound of the puck hitting the boards is usually a comfort, a reminder that this is my domain, but today it feels like a soundtrack to a disaster waiting to happen. Every time I glance over at the bench, I see that damn cameraman. I didn’t even bother learning his name, that’s how resentful I am of his presence.
Finally, the first period starts, and we hit the ice, the crowd roaring. We’re facing Harvard tonight, whose roster is phenomenal this season. A lot of the juniors who weren’t quite up to par last year have developed into goddamn superstars.
The first few shifts are a blur of bodies crashing, sticks clashing, and the puck ricocheting wildly across the ice. I try to ignore the camera, but I keep catching sight of it out of the corner of my eye, like a persistent mosquito I can’t swat away.