Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
These weekly grades don’t count a whole lot toward my final mark, but it’s a hit nonetheless. Maybe I should change majors.
At first I’m disappointed in the grade, and then I’m pissed because I shouldn’t even be at this damn school. By the time I head for practice, that adrenaline that makes me do stupid shit is already coursing through me. My usual scowl is in place.
Then I see Kole coming the other way down the hall of the hockey rink, and a smile finds my face for what feels like the first time all day. “Hey.”
His eyes meet mine for a split second, and he gives me a nod, but he keeps walking.
And the scowl is back. Along with the dark cloud hanging over me, urging me to be the guy I don’t want to be but can’t seem to help when it comes so easily.
I thought that night at the park Kole and I were on our way to somewhat being friends. Learning he was gay should have scared me off because I know me, and I’d likely take advantage of that at some point—whether to piss off West or just because Kole is hot and it would be fun, fuck the consequences—but I still decided to be friends anyway. Since then, he’s basically ignored me. It’s very possible I did something, but I have no idea what.
Doesn’t matter anyway. If I don’t get close to anyone, I can’t hurt them. Or vice versa.
I enter the locker room, and like always, the rest of the team stares but mostly ignores me. I can’t say I blame them.
We get suited up and hit the ice, and after a few warm-up drills, we’re put into a scrimmage. Coach is playing with the lines, and he’s moved Simms from second line center to first line winger.
We’re both not happy about it. He’s not used to playing left, and the freshman, Kaplan, on my other side has amazing raw talent but is still green. Since that first practice, I’m back on top of my game, but it’s obvious everyone else is still on vacation.
Our line is getting pummeled by Rossi’s, and we’re supposed to be the best. This is really what Coach Hogan thinks will get us the W?
We’re switched out for another line, and all three of us sit next to each other in the team box, slumped with scowls on our faces.
Beck skates over to us. Last year this guy was playing with us. Now he’s an assistant coach. “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I mutter.
“Gelling with new line mates is hard, only made harder if you’re all more stubborn than Jacobs and I ever were. We put our personal shit aside on the ice and still managed to work as a team, even when we hated each other. Put your egos aside and get it done.”
I liked him better when he wasn’t an authority figure.
The next time we hit the ice, instead of doing what Beck says, Simms decides to play his own game. Kaplan tries to keep up with me, and I try to work out what the fuck Simms is doing, while our captain, Rossi, fires bullets at our goalie.
I manage to get the puck off a rebound from Schofield’s pads, and I pass to Kaplan. We make some ground, and Kaplan passes back to me, but before it hits my blade, Simms cuts across me, comes into my goddamn zone, and takes the puck … from me. His teammate.
And even though Coach blows his whistle to get us to stop. Even though he, my brother, and Beck will handle it, my inner asshole comes flying out.
I shove him. “What the fuck was that?”
“It was reflex,” Simms yells. “I’m not used to being a winger yet.”
“Where’d you learn to play? At the school of narcissism?”
“That’s rich coming from you. I’m surprised you even know the word ‘narcissism.’ Wouldn’t have picked it with your … grades.”
Ooh, hitting me where it really hurts. My intellect. Joke’s on him, because I don’t give a shit about grades.
“At least I’m not a pigeon.”
Simms’s eyes fill with the kind of ire I thrive on. The kind that leads to getting exactly what I want.
It urges me to keep going. “Hope you can find your girlfriend’s G-spot better than you can the net.”
The team’s collective “Oooh” and Coach’s “That’s enough” is drowned out as Simms tackles me to the ice.
My head hits the cold surface, but I don’t feel it. Stupid helmet saving my life and whatever. Simms manages to land a punch to the left side of my face, and I’m thankful my helmet at least doesn’t have a cage because I can feel the entire force of his fist.
It hurts.
It burns.
Most importantly, it reminds me I can actually feel pain.