Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
A few of the other players chuckle, breaking the tension, and Nowicki gives me a friendly pat on the back as he starts toward the tunnel. “Good to have another adult on the team, brother.”
I nod his way, my lips curving. “Thanks. We grown-ups gotta stick together.” After Nowicki turns away, I add in a voice for Stone’s ears only, “Thanks for the save.”
“Anytime, dude,” he says. “Fuck that guy and his dumbass mouth. Let’s go wipe the rink with his weasel ass.”
“Pretty sure that’s an insult to weasels.” Cruise, our relentlessly upbeat team captain, pauses near the bench on his way to the ice, a serious expression on his face for once. He glances around before adding, “Let me know if he keeps up with that kind of crap, okay? That’s not going to fly on my team. Shit talking is one thing, but we don’t hit each other where it hurts.” His brown eyes narrow in a playful glare. “I’m also going to make sure everyone knows ageism isn’t cool. I mean, it was funny when I teased the old guys back in the day, but now that I’m a geriatric, it’s a hell of a lot less amusing.”
“I feel you,” Stone says, holding out a fist. “Geezer fist bump.”
Cruise obliges him with a grin and we join the rest of the team on the ice. I move through my warm-up routine methodically, focusing on the scrape of my skates on the ice and the rhythm of my breathing. By the time the coaching staff arrives to start practice, I’ve regained my composure.
Mostly.
But as the morning wears on, it becomes increasingly clear that Garcia’s mind games are just the tip of the iceberg. The coaching staff seems to be working from a script, one that doesn’t include me as the starter.
Coach Lauder divides us into groups for drills, and I find myself working with the second line while Garcia gets prime position with the first. It’s subtle, but the message comes through loud and clear.
“LiBassi,” Lauder barks after I make a routine save. “Sharpen it up. You’re a half-second slow on your glove side.”
I clench my jaw and nod, not trusting myself to speak. The save was textbook, and we both know it, but arguing won’t help my case.
Ten minutes later, Garcia makes almost the exact same save, but with an unnecessary flourish that has him sprawled dramatically across the crease.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Lauder calls out. “Great extension, Garcia!”
I grit my teeth and focus on the next shot.
By midday, my patience is wearing dangerously thin. During a scrimmage, I’m positioned in net for the “away” team, another not-so-subtle indicator of where I stand in the hierarchy. Garcia, naturally, defends for the home team.
But I lock in, stopping everything that comes my way. The veterans on my side, Stone included, are putting serious heat on Garcia, and he’s struggling. He’s flashy, sure, but his positioning is sloppy, and his rebound control is practically nonexistent.
I, on the other hand, am playing like I have something to prove.
Because I do.
“Shit, Tank,” one of the defensemen mutters after I make a particularly difficult save. “You’re a brick wall today.”
I should feel good about that, but all I can focus on is the way Lauder and his assistants keep huddling together, their eyes on Garcia despite his mediocre performance.
During a break, I overhear Hartley talking to one of the assistant coaches near the bench.
“Yeah, the kid’s got real star potential,” he says, the direction of his gaze leaving no doubt that he’s talking about Gracia. “Fan-friendly. Marketable. The kind of personality the team needs going forward.”
The assistant nods, his brow furrowed. “And LiBassi?”
Hartley lowers his voice, but not enough. “Solid backup. For now.”
For now…
What the fuck does that mean? I’ve left it all on the ice this morning. Anyone with eyes should be able to see that I’m starting goalie material. At the very least, I should have confirmed that I belong on the team for the foreseeable future, not just “for now.”
But they aren’t evaluating me with a clear gaze. They’re seeing me through the lens of their own prejudice and my past mistakes,
Mistakes Garcia has made damn sure to keep at the top of their minds…
The whistle blows, calling us back to the drill, and I push away from the boards with more force than necessary. The unfairness of it all is like acid in my gut. I’ve worked my ass off to get clean, to rebuild my skills, to earn another chance, but these guys have written me off before I’ve even had a fair shot.
As we line up for the next drill, Garcia skates past me with his typical smug expression, like he knows the starting position is already in the bag. And maybe he does. Maybe he and Hartley are just that chummy.