Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“I don’t think there is halftime,” I murmur, still watching Eric.
A guy behind us, obviously sick of our inane observations, leans in and says, “It’s three periods, twenty minutes each.”
“Right, then.” Taylor springs up. “I’m getting a pretzel. I can’t possibly wait that long. Want one?”
I wave him off.
The Lions’ goalie is good, and so is the defense, but the offense can’t get the puck out of their zone. After a tense few minutes, the ref blows a whistle.
“That’s two minutes for number twenty-six, for boarding,” the announcer says as one of the Lions heads into a separate bench.
Poppy’s nose wrinkles. “Waterboarding?”
“No, it’s . . .” I stop, unsure.
“Boarding,” the dude behind us enunciates. He’s in his thirties and wears a Lions hat and jersey. He rolls his eyes at Poppy. “He checked a defenseless opponent into the boards.”
“Oh,” Poppy says. “What’s checking?”
The guy snorts. “How about you read a book before you come to a game?”
I glance over my shoulder at him. “We’re new fans. Give us a break.”
I turn back to the game just as the Thunder scores a goal.
The buzzer goes off and our fans let out a collective groan.
“Wankers,” Taylor calls as he returns from the food area. He throws a fist in the air while holding the pretzel in his other hand.
Eric gets back on the ice and into the action, stealing the puck and taking it into Thunder territory.
“Go,” I whisper under my breath. “Shoot it!”
He can’t. Not with two men on him, blocking the goal. He skates to the left, faking to the right, then breaks free of the defensemen and skates toward the goal.
A Thunder player darts in, steals the puck, and skates down the ice. He’s shockingly fast and easily shoots the puck between the goalie’s legs.
The buzzer goes off.
Eric returns to the bench, spits out his mouthguard, and pulls off his helmet. His hair is soaked with sweat, his face expressionless.
“That was painful.” Poppy buries her face in her hands. “I don’t even know what’s going on, but it’s terrible. I’m stressed!”
“Welcome to the world of hockey,” the guy behind us chimes in.
It only gets worse. By the end of the second period, they’re down 4-1, and they don’t get it back after the intermission. Eric starts making mistakes, ramming his opponent into the boards and trash-talking. When a Thunder defenseman hits him, he shoves him and they scuffle. When the ref breaks it up, he argues with the ref.
The final score is 5 to 1.
He’s first off the ice and heads for the locker room without looking up at the fans that line the aisle.
“He was still brilliant,” Taylor says. “You think he’d want to go out to dinner with us? Drown his sorrows in some terrible bar food?”
“I can ask,” I say.
We’d planned on going to the Tipsy Moose since it’s within walking distance. Poppy has already offered to buy me dinner since I bought the tickets for the game. Eric had offered me tickets, but I wanted to surprise him tonight.
We step out of the arena and into the lobby and ask one of the ushers for directions to the locker rooms. Once we get there, we wait behind a roped off area with a security guard as the players exit, showered and sullen.
My gut twists at the girls I see, several with Eric’s number on their shirts.
Poppy sniffs. “This hallway smells like a perfume shop.”
“Hmm,” I say as one of the girls pops out her mirror and reapplies her lipstick.
It was stupid to think he needed me. Yes, he might have invited me, but that didn’t mean he was desperate for a cheering squad. Win or lose, everyone loves him. He just wanted me to come because I’d never seen a game.
It’s not like we’re a real thing.
Doubts creep in.
Wouldn’t he rather hang out with one of these girls? Or his hockey buddies?
“You know, maybe we should go . . .” I stop when Taylor nudges me.
The hall has erupted into high-pitched, girlish shrieks of excitement as Eric comes out of the locker room. Wearing slacks and a collared shirt, his hair is wet and slicked back. His cheekbones are stark under the lights, his eyes hooded.
He doesn’t crack a smile.
“Eric! Marry me,” comes from a random woman who has a baby on her hip. She looks to be in her late twenties. Obviously, it’s not just college girls he attracts. He stops, takes the sharpie she’s holding, and signs her shirt.
A television station camera crew steps in front of us and muscles their way in. “Eric! Tell us what went wrong tonight.”
A microphone is shoved into his face, but he takes it in stride. “We were off. It happens. We had to make a change with O’Brien being out due to a last-minute injury. We made a lot of mental errors and lacked intensity. It’s not something we mean to repeat. That’s all I have to say.”