Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
I’m fascinated by her.
Part of it is her pain and the resilience I see that was born from it. I admire her.
And again… attraction.
She’s hot, and yes, being honest, I’ve thought a little too much about that curvy body under those workout clothes, that gloriously long, golden hair, and those eyes… catlike and fierce.
I walk into the locker room and am immediately greeted by the guys already there. It’s a far cry from the quiet, standoffish group of minor league and veteran players brought together under trying circumstances. I make my rounds with fist bumps and small words to each of the guys, Jenna driven from my mind as my team takes precedence.
Boone Rivers sits on the bench—his cubby is next to mine—dressed in his gear from the waist down as he tapes his stick.
“How’s it going?” I ask as I hang my duffel in the open-faced locker.
“Good, man,” he replies, eyes staying on his task. “Just ready to get out on the ice.”
I like this guy a lot. He’s a solid second-line center who brings a lot of experience to the team. He’s bounced between the minors and the big league over the years and has become known as a confident clutch player. That was never more evident than when he had to step in to fill Coen’s shoes after his two-game suspension last week for the arrest in New York.
Stupid asshole got charged with drunk and disorderly and was completely unashamed of his behavior. Grapevine news said that Keller wanted to install some harsher penalties, but our general manager, Callum Derringer, lobbied for some grace, given the horrific circumstances of the plane crash that killed the entire team, minus “The Lucky Three” who had not traveled for that game.
Coen was one of the three, but he sure doesn’t act like he’s lucky. In fact, it’s clear he’s overwhelmed with survivor’s guilt because he’s basically become a dick to everyone around him, including the fans. His popularity over the last few weeks has dropped significantly, and one way that’s wholly apparent is via jersey sales. He was a top seller for the franchise before the plane crash, not only because he’s a stellar player but because he was fun, gregarious, and cocky in a charming way. Everyone loved him. Now, he’s not even in the top ten.
More telling was his first home game back last night. Not only were the cheers for him muted when he was announced, but there were even some boos.
Not many, but they could be heard over the cheers, which weren’t as effusive as those for the other players.
It was shocking, especially from a home crowd that has nearly been blowing the roof off in support of this pasted-together team. If Coen was offended by it, I couldn’t tell. He wore the same expression he’s had from day one of the new team forming that basically says, “Eat a bag of dicks,” projected toward the entire world.
Coen needs to be careful, because while he was out, Boone stepped up big-time. He played two outstanding games and garnered an assist. He’s ready to take that first-line position, but Keller and Derringer aren’t about to give that slot to him permanently based on a few good games. They’re going to let Coen—the more gifted player—have time to work through his issues.
“I had a crazy dream last night,” Boone says as he continues to wind tape on his stick blade.
“Oh yeah?” I sit on the bench to unlace my running shoes.
“I dreamed that the standings came out, and there’d been some computer glitch for weeks, and we were really number one in our conference.”
I snort, because that sounds like a good dream.
“But then, the entire roster was glitching, and I never got called up from the minors to the team. None of us had.”
Sounds like a nightmare.
“Want to know who was really called up?” he asks, one corner of his mouth lifts as he continues taping. “All the ice girls in the league. Every fucking one of them were supposed to make up the new team, and their only credentials were that they could skate and had nice tits.”
I laugh at the weird turn his dream took. While Pittsburgh has never been a team to have ice girls—their football team doesn’t have cheerleaders either—many teams have them, and the crowds, especially the men, seem to enjoy watching sexy women launch T-shirts into the stands and clean up the ice when needed.
Boone shakes his head in amusement, rips the tape from the roll, and smooths the edge. “It was nice waking up to realize I still had a job and hadn’t been replaced by ice girls.”
Chuckling, I kick off my shoes and toss them into the cubby. “While we may not be at the top of our conference anymore, we are still in the playoff race.”