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)
ForCiccarellisake, should we have just talked to each about this instead of going to these lengths to prove it?!
Though.
We both tend to do better with actions versus words.
“Is there um…” a second unnecessary adjustment to the phone is made, “anything you wanna say to your Slayer before I end the feed?”
He kicks his chin a bit upward at the same time he instructs, “Can you lift it a little higher so that it feels as though I’m looking her in the eyes?”
I do.
The second it’s there, he unexpectedly states, “I love you.”
How I don’t immediately drop the phone is a miracle.
We’re talking game seven of The Cup, six seconds left, five-hole score level of spectacular.
Rather than risk my response accidentally caught on camera, I end the recording, lower the object, and mouth what it is he knows I can’t speak, “I love you too.”
Chapter 22
Tanner
A goal three minutes into the game and now an assist towards the end of the first to put us three to zero with both of my parents watching – something that hasn’t happened since I was playing in youth– as well as my Slayer who told me…in a room full of fucking people…that she loved me.
Yeah.
Not sure the night can get any better than this.
Layvon skates into position beside me, black and gold bearing frame immediately bending over so that we’re eye level. “Guess you gotta score on the ice since you can’t off it.”
Huh.
I didn’t consider the possibility that it could get worse.
“We both know the shit going around isn’t true, aye?”
I adjust my hold on my stick.
Chomp down on my mouthguard harder.
Remain quiet.
“Pure bugie.”
They’re not pure lies, but I’m not about to confess that.
“You can’t handle that snipe.”
Keeping my mouth shut increases in difficulty.
“That’s why we may be in your barn but amore mio is gonna be my bed tonight.”
The puck drops ending his taunting, allowing me to regain my focus.
Composure.
Redirect my energy into supporting my team.
Possibly putting another assist in my stats since we’re in their zone.
Looferz manages to skillfully skate around one of their wingers to correct the puck’s trajectory. The tiny black object hits the edge of his skate allowing him to execute a silky-smooth pass over to Matty who’s just waiting to take the shot yet split seconds after it leaves his possession, Layvon sends him sliding into the boards with a dirty and unnecessary cross check that can’t go unpunished.
Dropping my stick and gloves the second I arrive is automatic.
Just like blocking his path.
And grabbing him by the jersey.
And sending a punch straight into his jaw that’s so hard it forces him to abandon the hold he has on his 3P.
Layvon’s response to curl inward, basically turtling up, surrendering before it can even begin, prompts me to pummel faster.
Prevent him from being able to bitch out on the beating he deserves for not only the dangerous play but the bullshit he said about my woman.
My Slayer.
Three hits transitioning into four pushes him into abruptly trying to hit back. A sloppy arm is swung overhead in an effort to create some space; however, it simply spins him into an angle that allows for sharp strikes to his side.
The low, low, high, low combo causes him to crumple, clearly, feeling the agony despite the pads absorbing some of the force. Rage over seeing my younger teammate, basically my baby brother, smash into the hard outer surface, possibly injuring his back or creating a concussion, a concussion like Becks had, Becks who is here in the stadium tonight as a fan versus a teammate because of the drugs shoved into his system over a similar incident, increases the magnitude of my hit.
Has me abandoning jabs for a flat out beating.
Uppercut on top of uppercut on top of uppercut as he’s dragged over to the spot where Matty fell leaves a blood trail reminder to those watching not to fuck with my team.
Me.
One hard yank downward has him hitting the ice like the discarded trash he is signaling to the refs it’s time to intervene.
They finally stop being bystanders and put themselves between us, becoming the barricade needed to stop the scrum from continuing.
It’s bad enough my ass is about to get a major for fighting and possibly a minor for instigating.
I don’t need to guarantee the latter.
With only thirty seconds left in the period, the zebra escorts me to our tunnel as opposed to the box to the sound of thousands of people chanting “ra” and echoes of sticks being clapped in approval of my brainless decision.
Which it was.
That was all instinct.
Not calculated.
Not controlled.
Not anything I’m fucking known for.
Not anything I fucking train for.
Lazily tossing my bucket near my seat precedes me ditching my mouthguard in lingering irritation that I can’t seem to settle.
What the fuck is my problem?
I beat the shit out of Layvon.