Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Cap curiously angles his head to one side and asks, “The catch?”
“All four of us,” other balls are delivered to the assistant, skating, and goalie coach, “will be throwing these.” An even more villainous expression takes over his almond shaded face. “Meaning at any time you could be being attacked from all directions.”
To my surprise, Cap lightly chortles. “The real challenge.”
“For some of you,” Coach offhandedly chuckles back.
“That’s it?” Payne cockily pokes. “You called us up here to do Bush League shit?”
“Nováček,” Matty mirthfully mutters underneath his breath, having made a similar mistake last season.
“Shit they probably don’t even do in Beer League?” Payne continues to complain. “Shit that-” Skating Coach Keats Bass’s bright neon ball suddenly hits him in the face not only knocking him off balance but his ass onto the ice. “Fuck!”
“Dry land, call up,” Wahl smugly snickers.
“That’s not fair!” whines Payne already proving to live up to his nickname. “I wasn’t ready! I wasn’t-”
“You don’t make the rules, you fucking pheasant,” grunt the Goonie Tunes in tandem.
“Off my ice,” Coach commands prior to diverting his attention back to the crowd. “As for the rest of you?” Childlike joy clomps through his complexion. “You might wanna wheel.”
There’s no hesitation for us to part in various directions.
Some of us choose to skate backwards to keep our eyes on those with weapons while others rush to find the “safest” zones they possibly can.
Too bad it doesn’t matter where you end up, so much as how you handle the hit.
Having stability.
Being centered.
A neon ball comes soaring my way forcing me to skid to an abrupt stop near the glass; however, rather than hit me – which is what I brace for – it hits Wahl who happens to plant himself between me and the object. After the child’s toy effortlessly bounces off his solid figure, he glances over his shoulder and chuckles, “Always on the D.”
That he is.
The type of defenseman who always protects his team.
Quickly glancing around the rink leads me to noticing that Cap is out there doing the same, swiftly extending his frame into a t-shape to protect nearby forwards or centers.
He calls for them to fall in line.
Commands that they get to where they’re not in the direct line of fire.
Puts himself in harm’s way rather than them.
All of a sudden, I realize the other purpose for this exercise.
Team dynamics.
Like he said.
Pracky starts with the basics.
And knowing who has your back versus who just has their own is one of the core fundamental parts of any successful team.
Spotting Peck a short distance away with his hands out and head on a swivel about to take an unknown ball to the back of the head has me rushing over, puffing out of my chest, and absorbing the hit. It slightly stumbles me backwards into him prompting his arms to Superman extend backwards to catch me on his back instead of letting me fall.
“Thanks, Pecks,” escapes as I regain my footing.
“Anytime, Snowman.”
Fairly certain the heat is off of him, allows me to direct a glance towards our bench to see Hoss is still here.
Except now she’s alone.
Completely alone.
Just watching.
Filming.
And fuckme, smiling.
Actually. Smiling.
Full fledge, straight white teeth, shimmering in the tacky barn lights smiling.
Messierhavemercy is there anything more incredible than that?
Unable to resist getting a better look – a closer look – I slyly begin skating towards her around stopped players and sandwiching myself perfectly between coaches, forcing them to hit each other instead of us.
Laughter reverberates around the arena alongside ice carving symphonies and cursing solos from those getting kicked off.
The instant I arrive safely at our bench, I cheekily inquire, “Where’s your talking bird, Archimedes? Did he fly off back to his clock?”
Amusement – thank fuck – remains in her gaze as she lifts her eyebrows. “The Sword in the Stone?” Additional snickers hit my ears, speeding up my already racing heartbeat. “Seriously?”
“It was my favorite non hockey movie as a lad.”
“Same!”
“No shit?” Excitement pushes me to lean over the edge towards her. “Because it is the tale of King Arthur?”
“Exactly.”
“Have you seen other variations?”
“Pretty much all of them.”
“Really?” It’s impossible not to move closer. “What’s your fa-” is all that manages to dart past my lips due to not one, not two, but all four bouncy balls nailing me at once. Staying upright is an impossible feat given the divide and concur tactic of hitting my head, torso, and both legs, yet the loud, beautiful melody of Hoss’s giggles over watching my ass hit the ice immediately erases any ounce of embarrassment I might have considered feeling.
Despite knowing I should focus on my failure, on what to do better, on Coach’s clear demands I get to the training room, I don’t.
I simply admire the way her head is thrown back.
How the dark strands that missed her messy bun are hypnotically swaying.