Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
King
The dense urban environment suits me and I’m armed to the teeth, ready for action. The battlefield is my home.
“All right, let’s do this,” I mutter to myself, my eyes narrowing with focus.
I take off at a sprint through the city, along abandoned sidewalks and quiet alleyways. The adrenaline is pumping and as I round a corner, enemy combatants come into view. I duck behind a rusty car, but I’m spotted… bullets ping off the metal of the abandoned ’67 Chevy Impala.
The sound resonating through my headset makes my pulse skip a beat, only adding to the game’s authenticity.
“Gotcha,” I whisper, peeking out and aiming. The adaptive triggers on the controller resist slightly as I squeeze them, adding to the realism. I fire off a few rounds, taking down two enemies with quick headshots. The tactile feedback from the controller makes each shot feel shockingly real.
I glance around my living room for a split second, falling out of the fantasy as I take in the condo I moved into just a few months ago after being traded to the Pittsburgh Titans from the Houston Jam. My mom and sister spent a week here at the end of the summer helping me furnish and decorate the place. When I was in Houston, I rented an apartment and had two roommates. Now I have my own place and sometimes it’s surreal, even though I’ve been a professional hockey player for a little over three years.
As my mom reassured me, “You’re twenty-five now, Jack. It’s time you owned your own place.”
The sleek media console under the TV holds my gaming setup, my PS5 and VR headset neatly arranged. The framed photos of my family and teammates on the shelves remind me of the real world, even as I lose myself in the game.
An explosion rocks my virtual world, and the controller shakes violently. I hurry my character to cover, dodging debris. My heart races as I plan my next move.
I hear footsteps approaching from behind. Swiveling around, I spot an enemy sneaking up. I switch to my secondary weapon, a shotgun, and fire. The fool goes down with a loud blast, the sound echoing through the living room.
“Not today,” I say, grinning. I push forward, sprinting across an open courtyard, but before I can take on the next wave of enemies, my phone pings.
I pause the game and toss the controller onto the cushion beside me. Nabbing my phone from the glass coffee table, I lean back into the comfy, deep navy velvet sectional sofa that my younger sister, Jenny, said I just had to have.
It’s a text from my older brother, Mike. Dude… how are the knuckles this morning?
Grinning, I flex my right hand. During last night’s game, it connected three times in a row with the jaw of Andre Zelba, one of the first-line defensemen on the Boston Eagles. He had the temerity to take a swipe at my center, Penn Navarro, with his stick and that can’t go unpunished.
Mike’s text is within our Kingston family group chat and before I can answer, Jenny pipes in: You were an absolute hero last night.
My younger brother, Lucas, chimes in. At only eighteen and in his senior year of high school, he has the benefit of being the baby of the family and is the biggest smart-ass of us all. Hero? Ha! He slipped and fell before he could finish the guy off. Butter skates!
Snickering, I manage to get three words typed before my mom sounds off. Mary Kingston is the typical worrier. Seriously, Jack… how is the hand? Did the team doctor look at it?
My dad is fast on the draw. He’s fine. Aren’t you?
Jenny comes to my defense in a wholly unrelated matter. He likes to be called King, not Jack.
That is true. That’s been my nickname for as long as I can remember and while my mom calls me King ninety-nine percent of the time, sometimes she slips when she’s in worried-mom mode.
I finally fire off a response. All good, Mom. Just a little bruised. The other guy looks worse, I promise.
Lucas shoots off a GIF of Robert Downey Jr. rolling his eyes and then types, Can I get your autograph?
I’ll sign your forehead next time I see you, twerp, I reply. Any response is overshadowed by my phone alarm going off.
I shoot a quick text. Nice jabbering with you weirdos but I gotta get to work.