Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Bowie Jane nods, the flat press of her mouth telling me this isn’t the answer she wanted. I drop the stack of clothes and squat before her, both hands going to her shoulders. “Your mom loves you very, very much and is so excited to have you home. I’m sure it’s hard for her to have a boyfriend, trying to figure out a balance. I’m also sure you’re afraid her attention will be taken away from you, but one thing I know for sure is that you will always be her first priority, just the way you’re my first priority.”
“But I don’t have to like Chet, do I?” she asks with a fierce knitting of her eyebrows.
Laughing, I pull her into a hug. “No, baby. You like who you want to like. You like who deserves to be liked. But maybe just realize that for whatever reason, your mom likes him, and I know you want her to be happy, right?”
She nods against my shoulder, little arms wrapping around me tight. I give her a squeeze before releasing. “Okay… let’s get this unpacking done and we can play a game or something before I leave.”
“Can I paint your nails?” she asks slyly as she pulls back to look me square in the face with hopeful eyes.
“Sure, why not?” I reply with good nature. Not the first time I’ve sported pink on them and I’m sure not the last. Bowie Jane gets a kick out of her big, burly hockey dad getting made fun of.
Doesn’t embarrass me though. Every sloppy stroke she puts on my fingernails is a memory I’ll always treasure.
CHAPTER 3
Foster
We’re running two-on-one breakaway drills and I’m paired with Seth Caraway, a minor league player. He was invited to the Titans’ training camp to join the nearly sixty prospects vying for a spot on our twenty-three-person roster.
Training camp started two days ago and has mostly involved physicals and individual skills evaluations. Today we’re drilling with other players, and just because I have a contract that extends through the end of this season doesn’t mean I’m a sure bet to keep my second-line center status.
Every off-season, I train just as hard as I do during the regular season because I’m well aware that going into my eleventh year in the league, there will always be younger, faster, stronger players coming up through the ranks, gunning for my spot.
The previous pairing slipped one by our backup goalie from last year, Kace Elliott, who looks pissed as Seth and I prepare to meet our defender, Jack Kingston, at center ice.
He’s an interesting dude, traded to our team over the summer to replace Kirill Zucker on the first-line defense. King, as everyone calls him, came from the Houston Jam and is one of the top five defensemen in the league. It was a huge score when Callum Derringer snagged him, but then again, our GM picked up a lot of great talent over the summer.
Seth and I head down the ice, passing the puck back and forth. I don’t know his style, nor he mine, but our passes are sharp. King skates backward between us, moving his stick side to side, looking for an opportunity to poke the puck out of our possession. As we close in on Kace in goal, he leans left and right, attempting to see around King’s hulking figure. The dude is massive and yet light on his skates. Totally impressive.
I juke left, then right, forcing King to commit. I’m able to slide the puck easily through his legs. Seth picks it up for a blistering wrist shot but is denied by Kace, who scoops it from the air as if magic lined his glove.
“Good save,” I say to Kace as I skate behind the net and head back to the end of the drill lines formed on the opposite side of the rink.
After practice, I shower and change into street clothes. I’d made plans to meet up with Boone and Van for a beer over at Mario’s but I don’t see them around. Probably already headed over.
As I walk out to the player parking garage so I can stow my bag in my Ford F-150, I scroll through my messages.
There’s a text from Van. Already got a table and ordered you a beer.
I whip back a response. On my way.
A voicemail notification catches my attention and I flip over to see that Sandra left me a message. I press play and put the phone to my ear.
“Foster… call me. There’s something important I need to discuss with you.”
The words alone wouldn’t cause any emotional uprising within me but her tone sounds defensive, as if she’s gearing up for a battle.
Without hesitation, I dial her back and continue the trek to my truck.
“Hey,” she answers. She sounds rushed and frazzled.