Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
With my own eyes and all my senses, absorbing the grim expressions of the countless specialists who came in to see Aiden.
Everyone was fucking scared and here I am, trying my damnedest to focus on this game… my team… my city… and I just want to be by Aiden’s side, holding Lilly’s hand.
“There’s nothing more we can do,” Dr. Yoffe said this morning as they adjusted Aiden’s supportive medications and upped some dosages.
It was all on Aiden’s little body now, to pull on reserves and make a big stand.
“Let’s go,” Coen says with a hard shove to my shoulder and I blink out of my thoughts as he swings his legs over the board.
Fuck. It’s my line’s shift and I’m about three seconds too slow getting my ass up and over to follow Coen into the game. My skates bite into the ice as guilt eats me up from the inside out for not paying attention.
For not giving everything to my job and the people who count on me.
New Jersey has possession of the puck, one of their forwards racing into our zone, the puck skidding ahead of him. They’ve just had a line change too, so their legs are as fresh as ours. He fakes left, then goes right, trying to find an angle past Kirill, who’s positioned himself solidly in front of our net.
“Left, left!” Kirill shouts to Bain, signaling the approach of another Wildcat. Drake is ever alert in the net, his eyes tracking not only the opponent with the puck but the other guy sneaking up the right. Just as the shot comes in, he slides across, blocking the puck with a brilliant save, the rebound skittering toward the boards.
Stone is first to it, tapping it back to Bain, who circles our net, creating space and pulling the opposing forwards with him. I find an opening on the right, and Bain sends a crisp pass my way. Time to take it to their end.
Kirill and Bain head down ice. I move to the center, dropping the puck to Coen coming up behind me and move to the right wing. Stone sets up on the left as Coen approaches the blue line. He’s met by a Wildcat defender but gets the puck off to me near the boards.
A player comes at me just as Stone calls for the pass, but he’s got a Wildcat shadow on him. I fake the pass, causing the defenseman on me to commit, then slip the puck between his legs and speed past him.
My heart races as the net looms closer. I could shoot, but the goalie is expecting it. Instead, I spot Coen streaking down the center, getting into perfect position.
I snap a quick pass across and he takes a one-timer, sending the puck screaming toward the net. The Wildcat goalie tries to scoop it out of the air but it bumps off his glove. Sticks slap at the puck until it squirts loose, straight onto the blade of the enemy’s star forward, Kyle McKetchen. He’s one of the best players in this league and he breaks fast with the puck.
It puts him one-on-one against Kirill who defends the center lane as Drake leans to the side to watch around his frame. I dig deep, skating as hard as I can, trying to back-check. Just as it looks like he’s going to shoot, I manage to poke the puck away from behind, disrupting his shot and giving him a tiny shove as well. The puck wobbles toward the net and Drake covers it easily with his glove to stop play.
When the whistle sounds, my line skates back to the bench. I’m exhausted from that roughly thirty seconds out there and completely dissatisfied with our performance.
It just wasn’t good enough and now we’re down to less than two minutes until this game is over.
♦
Not a word is spoken as we trudge down the hallway and into the locker room. The only sound is the clapping of skate guards on the concrete floor until we reach the plush carpeting of the locker room. I imagine the emotions rocketing through each of us are varied and individualized, probably ranging from melancholy to anger.
I’m furious and as soon as I reach my cubby, I grab the edge of the bench in front of it. I lift and hurl it end over end. The crash of its metal legs into the lockers that hold my, Van’s and Camden’s belongings is jarring and everyone freezes to stare at me with wide eyes.
I ignore them, dropping onto another bench where I efficiently remove my skates. Other players dribble in, all quietly disrobing. I’m the first undressed and into the showers.
The water is ice cold when I step under it and I don’t bother warming it up. I need the shock to my system, something to knock me out of this rageful desire to destroy things. I’m pissed at my performance, frustrated we lost and our playoff run is over, and I’m filled with so much bitterness over Aiden’s condition that I’m afraid if someone looks at me wrong I’ll take a swing at them.