Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“No cameras, sir.”
“Then what the hell? How does it look when my captain doesn’t do the drill?”
Shuffle, shuffle. “Like I don’t deserve the C.”
“Exactly,” he says slowly. “Which also means?”
“I’ll be doing laps until I either puke or you’re ready to leave?”
He simply nods. “Very good because you’d hate for me to take the C, eh?”
“I do happen to like it very much where it is.”
He pokes at my captain’s C patch then. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t have to; his point is clear. “Okay then, be my captain, set the example, lead your team, or I’ll give you a P for your jersey. Which stands for…?”
“Puck bucket carrier,” I say grudgingly, and he pats my chest.
“I’m glad you know how to listen to some things I say.” I have to force myself not to jump when he blows the whistle again. He calls out, “Again, and if Jeannot can’t do the right play, everyone will be doing laps.”
Even without the warning looks I get from my teammates, I wouldn’t dare do what I’m not supposed to do. Though, I get back on a breakaway and I know I could probably make another trick shot, but I refrain.
Barely.
With my laps, I am the last one to the locker room. I am panting and feel like I am going to puke when Odder slaps my shoulder. “Face it. Those laps were worth it. That shot was sick.”
I laugh as I fall back into my locker, fighting for air. McGrady sits beside me, nodding. “Hell yeah, it was.”
I nod as I shake off my gloves and hand them to Penelope Odder, our locker room manager. “It was a good shot,” she tells me as she takes my gloves and gives me a sweet smile.
“Thanks, Penny.” I lean into my locker, exhaling. I’ve gotten to know Penelope and her brother, Phillipe, a lot over the years, not only on the ice but through family events with my billet family, the Adlers. I’m not sure I’m supposed to still call them that, though, because I don’t live with them anymore. I live with my best friend and their son, Quinn. But truthfully, Shea and Elli Adler are more my parents than my own.
I haven’t had a relationship with my parents since the summer after my freshman year. I miss them and wish I could call them, but thankfully, Shea and Elli have taken me in. They love me, feed me, come to my games, and no matter what, I know they have my back. Something I didn’t always have, which was a big reason for leaving home for America. I wanted stability, I wanted a home, and the Adlers have given that to me. A home for the last six years and a best friend for life.
As if thinking of him conjured him, I hear my phone sound with his text message tone. I reach for my phone to see what he wants.
Quinn: When are you coming home?
Me: I’m about to take a shower and then heading that way.
Quinn: Bet. I need to talk to you.
Uneasiness eats me alive.
Me: Quinn, I have a touch of anxiety. Tell me what I did.
Quinn: LOL, it isn’t even about you, jackass. It’s about me.
Me: Are you dying?
Quinn: Not today.
Me: Are you kicking me out?
Quinn: Again, not today.
Me: Did you make me food?
Quinn: Once more, not today because I’m not Mom.
Me: But I’m hungry
Quinn: You’re always hungry. Get me a Mexican pizza from Taco Bell on your way.
I send him a thumbs-up emoji as I throw my phone into my pullover pocket and start to undo my skates. I watch a pair of bare feet move by me before the person they’re attached to sits beside me, and inwardly, I groan.
“Ooh, my dad doesn’t like you.”
Fucking Dawson Sinclair.
Coach’s kid.
My nemesis.
And my little hockey brother.
I dislike him greatly.
I don’t even look up. “Hey, Dawson. Go find your creek, loser.”
Everyone chortles as Dawson laughs in a fake-obnoxious way. This kid gets under my skin, and I don’t know what it is about him. I’ve been dealing with him since my sophomore year, and I can’t stand him. He is cocky, full of himself, and thinks he’s the best on the team. He reminds me so much of myself, but the thing is, I am the best on the team.
“Come on, Captain. You think I haven’t heard that before? Get new material.”
Hell, I didn’t know what Dawson’s Creek was before I met him. Not that I tell him that. “Go clean your creek, or get dumped by a girl named Katie.”
Dawson snorts. “Loser, you can’t even insult my name right. It was Joey.”
“Whatever, go play with your buddy Pacey.” I flip him the bird. “Oh wait, he sleeps with your girl in your creek.”
“You’re such a loser,” Dawson scoffs.
“Fine. When you’re done cleaning your creek and crying over your girl who slept with your best friend, holler at me, and maybe I can help you get off that bench you ride so hard.” Everyone laughs more, giving Dawson a hard time, taunting him. I would feel bad, but I don’t. I hang up my skates, wiggling my toes against the carpet. Dawson shoots daggers at me, and I just grin. I may fuck with him for being Dawson from the creek, but it chaps his ass that his daddy has him on the bench. “What was your TOI? Five minutes last game?”