Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Nope.”
“Can you tell me why?”
I let out a loud breath. I knew it would be hard to face Coach’s questions.
I don’t want to relive the ugly emotions—anger, grief, mourning, and hopelessness. There’s a reason I decided to hate hockey. Or pretend to hate hockey.
The loss of it hurts too much.
I shrug at my old coach. “I haven’t had anything to do with hockey since …” I pat my knee.
Coach Keller sighs. “It’s such a waste.”
I love hearing that the only thing I was good for was playing hockey. Then again, have I done anything to prove that theory wrong?
“I really am here for Whit, not a life lesson. Thanks, Coach.”
“Nah, I don’t accept that.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
“You’re one of the most talented skaters I’ve ever coached.” He stands. “Lace up. You can help me run today’s practice. It might do some of these kids some good to skate with someone who’s actually made it to a Frozen Four final.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. I did not sign up for this. “I …”
“What’s it going to be, Richardson? Is your plan really to be a bartender for the rest of your life?”
“Well, I’m not going to be an NHL player, so …”
“And hockey is the NHL or nothing, is it? My job here is meaningless, then?”
“Well, no, but—”
“A play isn’t just about getting a puck inside that net. It’s good defense, quick offense, and working them together.”
Gee, where have I heard that before? “Your point?”
“Life isn’t always about the end goal. It’s how you get there that’s more important.”
“Deep, Coach, really.” But fuck, if it doesn’t ring true.
Could I really do this?
“What’s it going to be? You in or out?”
I get the feeling this is one of those moments where there’s a clear right move, and if I don’t take it, I will regret it.
My inner bitterness is telling me to walk away, but I don’t.
I stand. “I’m in.”
14
Whit
I’m eager to get on the ice today. Our practice sessions leading up to the semifinals are grueling, but I need it. I need the busywork and to keep distracted from thinking about anything but Rainn and that kiss.
For once, I’m not only happy for my busy schedule, but I’m reveling in it. Because the more I have to do, the less time I have to fantasize.
This practice, though … What the fuck? As soon as my skates hit the ice, my feet almost fall from beneath me because standing with Coach Keller is someone I’d never expect to see here wearing skates and a nervous expression.
Rainn is here? As far as I know, he hasn’t been back since his injury. He hasn’t wanted to come back. Rainn hates hockey.
I turn to my teammate Cal. “Was there something in the news about hell freezing over or perhaps the four horsemen of the apocalypse appearing somewhere?”
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Rainn’s gaze finds mine, and I almost fall again. Skating is hard, okay.
Coach gathers us around. “Everyone, this is Rainn Richardson, former hotshot on this campus.”
Rainn winces but covers it well, probably from being called a former hotshot.
There are some cheers and enthusiastic greetings from the team. Most of them hold an expression of awe—similar to what I probably looked like when I’d first seen Rainn at the bookstore.
“He’s here to see what you all can do,” Coach says, and I can’t make sense of that, either. None of this makes sense.
Did Coach and Rainn run into each other somewhere and Coach forced him here against his will?
I want to tell Rainn to blink twice if he needs rescuing, but at the same time, I want to keep ignoring him and pretending this electric charge between us isn’t there. I didn’t go to the bar last weekend for a reason. We need breathing room. No, I need breathing room.
During practice, I keep my head down and try to concentrate on whatever task is thrown my way, but my mind is never far from Rainn. I watch him with the other guys, torn between wanting to skate up to him to say hi and staying on my side of the ice.
When Coach splits us into two lines for a passing drill, I go to Coach’s line instead of Rainn’s. It’s immature, maybe, but I think it will be better for both of us because I need to get over him before we can be friends again.
My plan backfires when Coach blows his whistle as I get to the front of the line.
“Sloppy! Richardson, show ‘em how it’s done.”
Rainn’s eyes widen as they flit between me and Coach. “Sir?”
One of the freshmen offers Rainn his stick, but he’s too stunned to take it.
“You and Whit have some trust already from being friends. Show these boys what soft touch means.”
First, Rainn told Coach about us? And second, thinking about Rainn and any sort of soft touch is not a good idea.