Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 59464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“Absolutely. I never miss a game unless I’m working, and I’m off tomorrow night.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure what to say next, so I add, “And hey, good luck with those soft serve machines.”
“Thanks.”
She leaves then, and the arena is once again silent. I get up and head for the locker room, still thinking about our conversation. I’m don’t know if I can pull off this comeback, but it feels good to know someone thinks I can.
In less than twenty-four hours, we’ll know if she’s right.
Chapter Seven
Lindy
“Our guys better have their shit together tonight,” my dad says gruffly. “No excuse for losing to this sorry-ass team.”
He cracks open an Old Style and sits down in his usual spot on our overstuffed sofa. The cushion on that end is worn through, which Dad says is due to years of being molded perfectly to fit his ass.
“Give them a chance before you start bitching,” I say from the recliner I watch games in.
“West was sloppy in the last game. Let four pucks fly right past him.”
“Well, five of ours flew past the other goalie, so that’s still a win.”
Dad grunts his reluctant agreement. “A sloppy one.”
“Where are the guys?”
Dad shakes his head. “Fair weather fans, those jokers. Don’s wife made him go to a visitation with her, Chuck has his bowling league tonight and Jerry…I dunno why he’s not here. Probably afraid to show up without Don.”
“A visitation seems like a legit reason to miss a game,” I say wryly.
“Depends whose it is.” Dad reaches for the bowl of popcorn I left on the coffee table.
“You better schedule your death accordingly then. I don’t know if I’ll be willing to miss playoff games for it.”
Dad chuckles and shakes his head. “Daughter of mine, if there’s an MLB, NFL, NHL or NBA playoff game being played during my funeral, I want it on in the background. Pop a cold sixer of Old Style into the casket with me and I’ll be a happy corpse.”
The puck drops then, and we both turn our attention to the TV screen. My pulse kicks up a notch as soon as I see the red sweater with number 12 on the back. Victor. He’s flying across the ice with a purpose, and I’m mentally sending him every positive vibe I have.
I spent today going back and forth between being stunned and elated. I know there’s a higher, happier place than Cloud Nine, because that’s where I’ve been since meeting Victor last night. I’m somewhere around Cloud Fifty-Seven right now.
From now on, when I see his smiling photo on posters in the arena with the team roster, I’ll remember how it felt when he was smiling at me. Only me.
My silly daydreams about how it would feel to actually talk to Victor didn’t come close to the reality. I never imagined him joking and laughing with me, or sharing his frustrations. But the most surreal part was him asking me for hockey advice.
I’ve always looked at Victor from the outside and assumed he had it all. He’s handsome and rich, doing a job most people can only dream of. And even though it ended badly, he dated Kristen Moore, one of the most beautiful, popular actresses in the world. I’ve seen photos of him with models, too. I figured he was living the dream.
But he has worries and insecurities, too. I’m not just rooting for his comeback because I have a massive crush on him; there was a raw vulnerability in Victor last night that made me see him in a new light.
Just like my horrible boss Bruce deserves to step in a fresh pile of dog shit when he leaves his house, Victor deserves to prove himself on the ice tonight. Not for his coach, or the fans, but for himself. Karma, baby. I believe.
“Jesus, Petrov. That was an easy shot,” my dad grumbles.
“Maybe not so easy when there’s a 230 pound enforcer on your ass.”
Dad gives me a pointed look. “That’s why he’s paid the big bucks. He’s gotta leave his vagina in the locker room. It takes a big nut sac to play in the NHL.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure his nut sac is plenty large. He’s leading the league in goals scored this season.”
“Yeah, but half of ‘em are because he’s covering for Victor Lane. That guy couldn’t score if the goalie took a fuckin’ bathroom break in the middle of the game.”
“I’m so glad you’re not melodramatic, Dad.”
He shakes his head and then tips his beer can up to his mouth, draining it. “You’d agree with me if you didn’t work where you do.”
“I would not. I was a Blaze fan long before then.”
“Can’t live under this roof and not root for the Blaze.”
My eyes stay glued to the screen as Anton passes the puck to Victor, who lines up for a perfect shot and slapshots it so hard I lose sight of the puck. I hold my breath, praying it went in.