Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“Fire, rookie. You’re on fire,” I encourage as we skate back to the bench. “Next one’s going in.”
Grammercy grins, nodding. “Fuck yeah, it is.”
Coach paces behind the bench, barking instructions that blend into the cacophony of crowd noise and skate blades slicing through ice. We take the lead halfway through the first on a power play goal from Justin, assisted by Nowicki after a beautiful zone entry.
But being up 1-0 makes Nebraska more aggressive. Shields leads the charge, throwing elbows and shoulders like the Kool-Aid man trying to burst through a wall.
Second period starts with Nebraska pushing hard. They’re determined to tie things up, throwing everything they have at first Shane, then Tank, who stands like a brick wall between the pipes. Shot after shot is deflected away, but the corn-fed motherfuckers actually seem to be building momentum.
Meanwhile, Shields gets more stupidly aggressive with every shift. During a scramble in front of our net, he crosschecks Grammercy from behind, sending him face-first into the post.
The refs miss it, but I don’t.
“Keep your stick down, dickhead,” I bark as we skate past each other.
“Or what?” He sneers, deliberately bumping my shoulder. “Gonna cry to the refs, pretty boy?”
“Nah, I’ll let the scoreboard do the talking,” I reply with a wink that makes his face contort with rage. “But thanks for the compliment. Always great to have another man confirm just how foxy I am, Shields. But I’m taken, okay? So don’t get any ideas.”
I skate away as his face flushes a shade of magenta that definitely isn’t healthy.
I’ve really poked the bear this time, no doubt about it, a fact Shields proves the next time we’re on the ice together. He’s practically hunting me. I can feel his beady eyes tracking my movements, sense him drifting inexorably toward wherever I am on the ice.
But that’s fine by me.
The more he focuses on getting a piece of my ass, the less he’s playing actual hockey or fucking with the rest of my team.
I keep my head on a swivel, staying just out of his reach while connecting passes and maintaining possession. It’s a delicate dance, but that’s one of the benefits of being an old-timer. I’m good at the dance by now.
When Shields finally commits to an attempt to crush me against boards, I deftly sidestep and spin away, leaving him to crash into the plexiglass alone.
“Gotta be quicker than that, big guy,” I taunt as he spins around, murder in his eyes.
He trips over his own feet as he tries to come after me, earning a roar of cheers—and laughter—from the fans watching it all play out in high def on the jumbotron, adding to Shields’ No Good Very Bad Night.
By the third period, we’re up 3-1, and Nebraska’s frustration is boiling over. The game gets chippier—slashes after the whistle, extra shoves in scrums, the kind of shit that often goes down when a team knows they’re being outplayed.
With about seven minutes left, Grammercy picks up the puck and accelerates through the neutral zone, a one-man breakout that catches Nebraska flat-footed. He’s got a step on their defensemen, a clear lane to the net opening…right up until Shields cuts across the ice like a heat-seeking missile.
For a split second, everything slows down. I can see it all unfolding—Grammercy with his head down, focused on the puck; Shields coming in on his blind side, his elbow already raised to head level; the refs caught behind the play, with no angle to see what’s coming.
I don’t think. I just move.
Three hard strides, and I’m between them, bracing for impact as Grammercy dishes the puck to Cruise on the wing. Shields crashes into me instead, the full force of his two-hundred-forty-pound frame connecting with my knee in a collision that sends us both sprawling.
Pain explodes through my leg, white-hot and immediate. I roll onto the ice, clutching my knee with a groan as the play continues down the other end. Through a fog of agony, I hear the crowd roar.
Cruise must have scored, putting us up 4-1.
The celebration is short-lived, however, as the team notices me still down. Tank is the first to reach me, dropping to one knee beside me on the ice.
“Don’t move,” he says, his voice tight as Cruise and the other Badgers gather around, forming a protective circle. “Medic’s coming.”
“Thanks,” I grunt out, fighting the urge to groan again.
Coach’s face appears above me a beat later, his perpetual scowl replaced with something that looks a lot like worry. Uh-oh, that’s not good. “Where’s the pain?” he demands.
“Knee,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Left one.”
The medical team rushes out, carefully examining the injury. The Badgers move back to give them room, but both teams hover nearby. Even Shields looks vaguely uncomfortable, though not remotely apologetic.
“We need to get him to the medical room,” our head trainer, Hitch, says after a brief assessment. “Can you put weight on it, Stone?”