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)
Neena suddenly strolls up from behind me to extend him a to-go cup. “One Ginger Gross hot chocolate for papi.” She sassily slinks into the seat beside him. “One delicious pumpkin spice for me.”
“Pumpkin gross,” Peck promptly argues. “Gingerbread great.”
“Ginger gross,” her head feistily cocks to the side, “just like the cookies.”
“I like the cookies!”
“Sí, sí, I know.” The cup soars towards her full, plump lips. “I’m basically the only good taste you have.”
Peck chortling at the chirp is the last thing I hear on my way out of the hospital.
Thankfully, the building isn’t too far from the stadium, and double thankfully, my gear bag’s already in the dry stall.
Set out.
Waiting for me to fucking throw it on.
Less thankfully, Coach, Cap, and the boys are so unbelievably pissed that no one bothers to speak to me.
Not during the entry.
Not post the anthem.
Not even on the first whistle.
While I’m not technically scratched for the night, I’m not exactly welcomed on the shifts.
My line – which includes Cap and Wahl – is rearranged to accommodate my absence – as though I don’t exist – and every time they hit the ice, the lump in my throat grows a little bigger.
Chokes me a little harder.
I continuously tighten my grip on my stick to keep my unmoved position beside Lyam Wheaton, our other goalie, knowing it’s a test.
Can I do what I’m told?
Can I do what’s best for the boys?
Can I surrender my need to show everyone in the stadium, everyone on the team, every team I’ve ever left why I’m fucking worth something?
Why I deserve to still be in this league versus lying in a hospital bed.
Breathing but unconscious.
Alone.
Abandoned.
Potato gets called for hooking right at the end of the first, putting us on the PK for the start of the second and pushing Cap over the edge for what I know is going to be a less than enjoyable break.
Particularly for me.
My ass hasn’t even touched my seat in the locker room when he grabs a fist full of my sweater like I weigh absolutely nothing. “Where. The. Fuck. Were. You?!”
“Seriously, Snowman,” Looferz sighs from the other side of the room, bucket being chucked in frustration. “You couldn’t tell whatever bunny to wait ‘til postgame and be on time for fucking gameday?”
The man who always has my back, everyone’s back, tightens his hold. Noticeably. “Were you fucking around?” His volume lowers to just above a whisper. “On your fucking Slayer?!” He cranes his sweaty, pale face uncomfortably closer to mine. “After all mine’s done for you?!”
“No.” I hold his stare hostage to ensure there’s no question about my loyalty to Arden. “I would rather never lace up another day in my life than hurt her.”
One single nod of respect is offered.
I work too hard trying to keep her in my life to fuck it all away on some smash and pass.
Not to mention I actually bloody love her.
Though that is so not up for discussion tonight.
Or tomorrow.
Or really anytime this season since I’m quite certain she’d just fold our entire relationship.
Fuck, just getting her to admit we had one damn near took an act from The League.
“Where, Frosky?” Cap repeats, grip unwavering. “Where. Were. You?”
“The hospital.”
His brow instantly furrows. “Why?”
“Becks.” Just his name is enough to grant me my freedom. “He hit his head. He’s alive but unresponsive.”
“Shit,” mutters an eavesdropping player somewhere in the background.
“Pecks is with him now-”
“I was wondering where bro was,” Wahl comments, joining Cap’s side. “It ain’t exactly his style to miss a game.”
“Not without threat of bodily harm,” one of the Goonie Tunes chimes.
“Or benching,” the other comments.
“Unless a teammate needs him,” Cap sighs on a step back, removing his mouthpiece. “Just like you.”
“Just like me, Cap.”
He gives the side of his face an uncomfortable scratch, unhappily sighs, and extends his gloved fist to bump. “Ferda.”
“Ferda.”
His stumble away exposes me to Coach who sternly lifts his eyebrows into the air. “We got forty hard miles up fucking hill, Frosky. I expect you to make it snow.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Blanc nods and smacks his gum with a little more vigor. “Let’s get our shit together, boys!” An enthusiastic pound to his chest is given. “Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.”
“Ra!”
Post a quick squirt from my bottle, removal of my mouthpiece and bucket, I stomp over to where Bricks is restocking towels and extend the object, I’d been choking the life out of for an entire period. “I need a new stick.”
“On it.”
“From the locker.”
“Got it.”
“And tape.”
“White.”
“And Hoss.”
This time there’s reluctance to his response. “Okay.”
Taking the defective one away and getting me one of my fresh, untouched spares requires significantly less time than locating my girlfriend who in spite of her best efforts looks about as pissed off as the boys did.
She waits until we’re out of the locker room and in one of the empty hallways to viciously bite, “Where. The. Fuck. Were. You?!”