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)
“Clear it!” Tank screams as the loose puck bounces in front of me.
Justin dives, sweeping it away with his stick as the seconds tick down.
Five, four, three...
When the final horn sounds, I’m the first one to reach Tank, tackling him in a bear hug that sends us both sprawling onto the ice.
“Took the Cup at our rookie home rink, old man,” I scream in his ear, my voice raw with emotion. “We fucking did it!”
The rest of the team piles on, a mess of limbs, sticks, and pure, unfiltered elation. We’re champions. We’re bringing the Cup home to Portland. Everything I dreamed for my final season has come true, and then some.
But somehow the win gets even sweeter.
After we’ve passed the Cup around, after we’ve all had our moment skating with it held high above our heads, Justin glides to center ice, microphone in hand.
“Before we wrap this up,” he says, his voice echoing through the arena, “we need to send a legend off the ice in style. Stone, get your ass over here.”
Confused but grinning, I skate over. The team gathers around as Justin pulls something from behind his back. It takes a beat for me to recognize my first jersey, the tiny orange Seattle Flamethrowers one from my first season in Pee Wee hockey.
My jaw drops as emotion clogs my throat. “What the fuck? How did you—”
“A little birdie told us your mom never met a keepsake she wouldn’t pack up and store in her garage,” Justin says with a wink as he hands it over. “We all signed it. Even Coach.”
I hold it up, seeing the signatures of all my final teammates there on my six-year-old self’s jersey, tears stinging in my eyes as I think about how happy that kid would be right now.
We did it, Little Me. We made our dreams come true.
And we’ve found an amazing person to make new dreams with…
I look up toward the box where Remy’s watching, thrusting the jersey into the air as the crowd cheers. A beat later, the sound guy plays “Rolling Stone,” by Bob Dylan, my old song from when I played for the Storm, truly bringing me full circle.
I pull Justin in for a hug, and the rest of the team surrounds us, making me the sappy filling in a sweaty, hockey-player pastry, before we finally head toward the tunnel where the press is waiting.
But when I spot the redhead jogging my way through the shadows, the reporter motioning me over might as well be invisible.
“We did it, Bossy!” I cheer, throwing my arms wide as she runs faster.
She jumps into me with enough force that I have to brace myself to keep from falling over.
“That between-the-legs pass to Grammercy!” she shouts in my ear as I hug her tight. “Are you kidding me? How fucking sweet was that?” She pulls back as I set her down, gripping my biceps through my uniform, her eyes bright with joy. “And that one-timer! When you only had maybe—”
“A quarter-second window, tops?” I finish, grinning so hard my jaw starts to hurt.
But if there’s something better than this feeling, of sharing a win with a woman who is as crazy about hockey and the Badgers as I am, I can’t name it.
“Against literally the best goalie in the league,” she continues, shrugging as she adds, “I mean, besides Tank and Shane. God, they were so good tonight. You all were. I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“I love you,” I say, lifting the jersey still clutched in my hand into the air between us. “Thank you so much for helping with this. It’s perfect.”
“You’re perfect.” She leans in for a swift, but hot-as-fuck kiss, before pulling back to cup my face in her hands. “You did it, baby. You went out just like you wanted to. I’m so happy for you.”
“We did it,” I correct. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Rem.” I laugh. “I’m so glad I don’t have to fly back to Portland for Game 7 right now. I’ve missed the fuck out of you.”
“Four whole days,” she teases as I brush a strand of hair from her face. “How did you survive?” Glancing over my shoulder, she adds in a softer voice, “Speaking of survival, you’d better go give interviews before the reporters go fully rabid. I’ll wait for you outside the locker room, okay? And we can grab a cab to the after-party? I caught a ride with Dad earlier since I knew traffic was going to be a nightmare.”
“Sounds good,” I agree, even as I put my secret plan in motion. “But can we stop by the apartment on the way? I need to see Barb. She made me promise I’d let her give me kisses if we won, and four days is a long time to be away from my princess.”