Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
“I don’t bang hockey players,” I tell her, “unlike someone I know.”
“Please,” Vivienne says. “I’m still so thirsty, you have no idea. It’s like I’m a camel in the desert. Dry. Seche.” She says the French word for dry. “I swear, I went to the gyno the other day, and he had to use extra lube.”
“Dryness comes with age,” Karrie says, and you would think that she just slapped Vivienne in the face.
“Bitch, I’m as old as you are,” Vivienne says. “How much lube do you have to use?” The minute she asks that, Allison, Zara, and I all groan. If we didn’t have wine glasses, we would have covered our ears.
“Don’t answer that!” I scream, and it happens at the same time as the other team scores, and boos fill the arena. “Shit,” I say, looking at the replay and seeing that it was the third line on the ice.
“Well, at least it wasn’t our guys,” Zara says quietly.
“We don’t have guys. You have a guy,” I tell her and get up to refresh my drink. I’m pouring another glass when I hear the whole crowd gasp.
I look at the television screen and see that one of the guys on the other team tried to hit Viktor in the back of the head. Of course, Viktor turned around, and then the pushing started. I don’t know what the guy said, but one second, they are face-to-face, and the next second, the stick goes flying, the gloves go flying, and all you see is Viktor grab the guy by the shirt and punch him square in the face. “Oh my God.” I gasp when the guy tries to hit Viktor, but he doesn’t stand a chance. The referee has to break them up, and Viktor skates to the penalty box. “Dad,” I call my father, and he turns from the bar and comes over. “Why is he in the box?”
“What?” He looks at me confused.
“Why did he get put in the box? He was defending himself,” I tell him. “The guy tried to hit him.”
My father looks at the replay on the television screen and then at me, back and forth maybe four times. “You’re asking me about hockey.”
“Oh my God, Dad,” I groan. “Just … I don’t get it.”
“It’s retaliation,” my father says. “If he would have let it go, the other guy would have gone to the box, but Viktor dropped his gloves.”
“Well, yeah, but,” I start saying, and I look at my father.
“Honey,” he says softly, “I really think …”
“Dad, seriously, I’m not the least bit interested in him,” I say, and with him, he can’t tell if I’m lying, so he just smiles.
“Are you coming back to our house for lunch tomorrow?” he asks me.
“No, I have a showing for a special client,” I tell him and look back at the screen and see Viktor on the screen. “How long is he in the box for?” I ask, and he points at the timer under the score of the game. It’s a tied game, and there is forty seconds left in the game and ten seconds left in his penalty. Viktor stands up in the box, waiting for his time to get back on the ice. Just when they open the door for him to get back on the ice, Evan poke checks it out of the zone, slipping the puck straight to Viktor. It looks like he’s running on the ice, but I think it’s him skating faster. I hold my father’s arm as I watch him go one on one with the goalie. Holding my breath, I watch as he goes left to right and then he fakes one way and the goalie goes that way, but he stays there, and he actually scores. “Ahhhhh!” I scream and jump. My mother looks over at me, her eyes fixated on me while my father turns to high-five Matthew. The horn goes off, and the crowd stands on their feet and cheers.
The announcer says Viktor’s and Evan’s name, and the crowd is still on their feet. They line up for a face-off again, and this time, the only thing that happens is they drop the puck and the horn sounds, telling us the game is over. I walk over to the entrance of the box and the seats and stand there when they announce the three stars of the game. I’m watching when they announce him as the first star.
He skates out and does a turn, tossing pucks into the crowd, and then they pull him for an interview. The jumbotron shows him standing next to the reporter, and I watch him with a sense of pride.
“Viktor, game one of the season and already on the scoreboard.” He smiles at him, and Viktor cracks a little bit of a smirk. “How did it feel?”