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)
I stare straight ahead, refusing to engage.
But inside, I’m a volcano on the verge of eruption.
The drill starts, and I’m paired against Garcia in a goalie challenge. Shooters alternate between us and whoever allows the first goal loses. Simple enough.
The first few shots are routine—wrist shots from the slot that we both handle easily. Then they move to one-timers from the circle, increasing the difficulty.
Still, neither of us breaks.
Garcia starts to showboat, making windmill glove saves and dropping into butterfly splits for shots that could have been stopped with far less drama. The rookies eat it up, hollering and banging their sticks after each save.
I remain steady, efficient, relying on positioning and experience rather than flash. The veterans cheer me on like one of their own, a fact I’m grateful for, but Lauder’s expression remains unreadable.
Then Stone steps up for his shot on me. From our years of playing together in Seattle, I’m guessing he’ll go for a high glove, his signature move.
Except he doesn’t.
At the last second, he shifts his weight and fires low blocker side, a dirty fake that would have fooled most goalies. But I’m in the fucking zone today. I track the puck and kick out my right pad, deflecting it harmlessly to the corner.
Stone grins as he skates past. “Still can’t get one past you, asshole. One of these days…” He shakes a mock-angry fist in the air as he glides away, and I grin.
It’s a small victory, but it feels good.
Next up is Donovan, one of the Badgers top scorers, taking his shot on Garcia. He winds up for a slapper from the dot, and Garcia drops into his butterfly early, anticipating low. Donovan sees it and adjusts, roofing the puck over Garcia’s shoulder into the top corner.
“Fuck!” Garcia slams his stick against the post as the team erupts in a mixture of cheers and jeers.
“That’s game,” Lauder calls out. “Good challenge, gentlemen.”
I should feel satisfied.
I won the head-to-head, fair and square.
But Garcia’s reaction catches my attention. His face is twisted with rage as he skates to the bench, and he’s muttering under his breath. This kid doesn’t just want the starting job; he expects it. Feels entitled to it. And he’s not handling even this little setback well.
I file that observation away for later.
His entitlement might be something I can exploit later…
As we break for lunch, I settle at a table in the cafeteria with Stone and a few of the other vets, keeping to myself as I fuel up for the afternoon session. Garcia holds court at a table of rookies, laughing as he tells some story about the puck bunny he brought home last weekend. His laugh is loud, high-pitched, and loud, so loud I swear I can feel it giving me tinnitus in my right ear.
“Ignore him,” Stone advises around a mouthful of grilled chicken. “He’s compensating for getting shown up on the ice.”
“I know,” I say, stabbing at my salad. “But it’s not just him. Lauder and Hartley already have their minds made up. They’re with him, not me.”
Stone shakes his head. “It’s day two of camp, man. Lot of hockey left to play before opening night.”
He’s right, but it doesn’t ease the anxiety knot in my chest. This was supposed to be my redemption arc, my chance to prove that I’ve changed, that I’ve earned my way back. Instead, it feels like I’m trapped in an old story, one the people around me won’t let me escape, no matter how much I’ve changed.
The afternoon brings more of the same. During team drills, I’m consistently placed with the second and third lines, while Garcia works with the starters. When Lauder gives feedback, mine is always critical, focused on what I need to improve, while Garcia receives praise and encouragement.
It’s subtle, but unmistakable. The deck is stacked, and everyone can see it.
After a particularly intense scrimmage session, we move to the weight room for strength and conditioning. I’m at the squat rack, grinding through my third set, when I feel someone lurking nearby.
I rack the weights and turn to find Hartley watching me with that calculating look I’ve come to loathe.
“LiBassi,” he says with a nod. “Got a minute?”
I grab my towel, wiping sweat from my face. “Sure.”
He leads me to a quiet corner of the room, away from the rest of the team. Never a good sign.
“I wanted to touch base about what happened in the locker room this morning,” he begins. “Garcia mentioned there was some... tension.”
Of course he did. The little snake.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
Hartley studies me, his eyes cold. “Look, I know your history. And I know guys like you don’t change overnight.”
“Guys like me?” I repeat, a dangerous edge creeping into my voice.
“Addicts,” he says bluntly. “My brother-in-law was one. Always swore he was clean and had it under control. But he didn’t. Cost my sister her marriage and damn near broke her in the process.”