Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
There’s more to my rule than that, but the subject is off-limits and Hope knows it. She was there when I made the “no athletes” declaration.
She’s about to say something else, but a hand clamps down on each of our shoulders. “I’m so glad to have my girl here tonight. It’d be bad luck if we didn’t start the season like this.” We turn in unison, our smiles matching Dad’s bright one as he looks down at us. He didn’t misspeak. It’s been a running joke since we were kids that we’re his girl, singular not plural, because Hope and I have always been attached at the hip like a two-for-one package deal.
He’s right. Opening night as a family is a tradition none of us take lightly. Mom and Dad both worked today, rushed home to change, and met us at the rink. Hope had to fly in for a visit from wherever Ben and his band are holed up writing their next album. And I did my five o’clock report, yanked a green-and-gold jersey over my head, and ran for the stands, where Mom already had hot dogs, nachos, and cocoa ready for each of us. After the game, I’ll meet my one-man camera crew, Ellis, and do a live report from behind the scenes for the eleven o’clock news. But that’s what being a Barlowe means—we back each other up. Always. No matter what.
I’m lucky, and I know it.
“Maple Creek, we’re one game into the new season and it’s already shaping up to be a great one. The Moose trampled the Beavers in an unexpected victory, two to zero . . .”
I look directly into the camera, sharing my excitement over the Moose’s victory with the viewers at home. The minor league games aren’t televised the way the NHL ones are, so people who didn’t make it to the arena tonight or haven’t downloaded the paid app don’t know the details of the game until I share it with them, so I try to make it as real and thrilling as I can.
I relay everything succinctly—the opening goal by none other than team captain and center forward Shepherd Barlowe, the second period of back and forth battling, and the surprise second point scored by right winger Max Voughtman. Most of all, I highlight that this is a big win for the Moose considering the Beavers were in the conference finals last year.
Ellis peeks out from behind the camera and points behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see my slightly famous big brother stepping out of the locker room door, freshly showered and flying high on tonight’s victory.
“Shepherd! How’d you feel about tonight’s shutout?” I ask, holding the microphone his way. A lot of pro athletes don’t like talking to the media, but minor league guys want the spotlight any chance they can get it. It’s a visibility resource for them, and one of the off-ice ways they can catch an NHL team’s attention. My brother’s no different—if anything, he’s a camera whore—but he’d talk to me even if he’d had the worst game of his career because he supports me the same way I do him.
“Hey, Joy!” he answers, coming to my side so the light hits his face. He thinks it’s his good side, but joke’s on him because he doesn’t have a bad one. He only thinks he does because Hope and I—mostly me—gave him a hard time about his totally normal left ear when we were kids and now he’s self-conscious about it. “Helluva game, yeah? I know the Beavers were the favorite going in to tonight, but we’ve been working hard in preseason and I think it really showed on the ice.”
He keeps it humble, highlighting the whole team’s contributions as we talk for a quick two minutes, and then Ellis twirls his finger in the air, telling me to wrap it up. Once we’re clear, Shepherd morphs into my brother instead of the star athlete interviewee. “Where’s Mom and Dad and Hope? They still around?” He looks down the hall toward the lingering crowd.
“Yeah, they’re waiting on you. Mom’s got a Moose Dog ready for you too. I told her it wasn’t on your plan, but she said it’s tradition and if Fritzi has a problem with it, he could talk to her.” Shepherd and I give each other a look, knowing that Fritzi’s tough, but Mom would have him shoving nitrite-filled processed-meat Moose Dogs down his throat by the handful if they went toe to toe. “Everyone going to Chuck’s to celebrate?”
“You know it. I’ll see you there.” With that, he jogs off, heading to find our parents while I finish with Ellis.
“Am I too late for an interview?”
I turn around to see Max Voughtman grinning and Dalton scowling. I can take two guesses who asked, and the first one doesn’t count. “Sorry, Voughtman. We already wrapped. Next time?” I offer with a friendly smile. I get it. He wants the coverage too.