Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“Definitely. Absolutely,” I lie.
“How did the call go?”
I don’t feel like talking right now. “Fine.”
“You sure about that?” he asks.
“Definitely. I’m thinking sushi if we win?”
“When we win,” he says, and we head to the locker room, out of step.
59
THERE’S A GIRL
Hollis
The crowd jeers as we skate onto the ice for the Saturday afternoon game, but I tune it out. It’s their barn. Their fans.
I head for the bench as the first line hits the ice for the face-off. My muscles are revved up, and I’m ready to jump in the second they need me.
My focus is the game. Only the game. That is all.
As soon as the puck drops, the Chicago team attacks it, skating fast and ferociously, weaving past our defenders and taking a shot on goal right away.
Dev saves it but barely. Chicago did not come to play.
Good. I didn’t either. After a line shift a few minutes later, I’m chasing the puck, trying to wrangle it away from them, Gavin jostling in front of their guys, blocking for me. A surge of adrenaline courses through my veins, and I lunge for the puck with my stick, only to be called on a penalty on their D-man.
“That wasn’t slashing,” I mutter, but it’s a moot point because…it fucking was.
In a huff, I make my way to the penalty box to serve my time. I rip off my helmet and fling it down, then stew, doing nothing, not a damn thing, as the other team scores the first goal, whipping the puck past Gavin, Rhys, and then Dev. “Fuck me,” I grumble, flinging up my arms.
Near the end of the period I’m back out there again, ready to put something on the scoreboard.
The game’s a chippy one, physical and mean, and I am going to be sore tomorrow, but I don’t care when I snag the puck then fly on a breakaway, sending it screaming toward the goalie.
But he stops it with his leg.
I curse. I missed an easy shot.
When I hit the bench once more, I slam the stick against the floor.
“Bouchard, let it go. Let it fucking go,” Stefan says, his tone firm and brooking no argument.
What’s wrong with me? I’m not the guy who gets angry in a game. I’m the easygoing guy, even on the bench. I play hard, but I have fun. I work with my teammates, not against them.
I grab my water bottle, chug some, then try to shake off my funk.
Deep into the second period, my blades cut through the ice as I try to sync up with my team, determined to atone for my earlier mistakes. The noise of the fans is deafening, the boos somehow even louder. Most nights, the din strangely quiets my thoughts. Tonight, the noise amplifies them. As I hunt for the puck, I’m wondering if Briar is watching back home. If she’s cheering. If she’s missing us too.
When Rhys slips the puck to me, I miss it.
Chicago doesn’t though. Their players are relentless, their skates and sticks whipping around like the claws of a pack of wild animals taking us down.
At the end of the game, the horn blares and we’ve lost.
It’s my fault.
I don’t talk to anyone on the quick flight to Detroit on the team plane. Or in the hotel lobby. Or the elevator.
When I reach my room a little before eleven, I call my mom.
Her voice is sympathetic. “Hey there. Tough game.”
“I know.”
“Were you elsewhere?”
How does she know? “It was that obvious?” I ask, tugging at my tie, tossing it down on the couch.
“You don’t usually play mad. Only when things aren’t quite right in your life.”
It is that obvious. “There’s a girl,” I admit.
“Yeah?” She brightens.
“It’s complicated.”
“It always is. Have you talked to her?”
No. But maybe I should. When I say goodbye, I hit Briar’s number.
60
TELEPHONE TAG
Briar
After I leave the gym downstairs, I head to the elevator banks when my phone trills. Hollis’s name appears across the screen along with the icon I assigned to him—a sunburst.
Giddy, I answer the call. “Hey there,” I say, hoping he’s doing okay but prepared for him to be in a funk post-game.
“Hey,” he says, a little heavy.
Funk it is. “What’s going on? You okay?” I ask gently as I hit the up button.
“Not really. The game was shitty. It was all my fault.”
“It was a rough game. But there’ll be another one tomorrow night,” I say, trying to cheer him up.
“You watched it,” he says, less a question, more a statement. A sort of dreamy one.
“I did. Are you surprised?”
“No. Just…weirdly happy?”
I smile as the elevator arrives and I step inside. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just liked that you were there even though you weren’t there. I’m not even sure that makes sense. A lot about today didn’t make sense to me, Briar,” he says, like the words are spilling out in a confession. “I felt off the whole time. Do you know what I mean? Didn’t I seem off?”