Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Before I knew it, my feet were moving. I passed car after car, recognizing each one as I did. What was I even doing here? I didn’t want to be here, yet my feet kept propelling me forward. They took me in through the side door, where the sounds that were once like home to me now felt distant and no longer part of my life. Low voices shouting calls, sticks slapping against ice, and pucks and blades cutting through glass.
Yet, I felt nothing.
Climbing the stairs higher and higher, I didn’t stop until I was in the nosebleeds, well out of sight. I sat down on the hard plastic seat and threaded my hands together. Every muscle in my body was tight as my eyes focused on the ice. As I watched my former friends and teammates practicing. Making runs, breakaways, and dekes. Firing shot after shot at Timpson, the goalie who rarely let anything pass. His nickname wasn’t Shut Out for nothing.
“Here!” the most familiar voice called, cutting through the arena, and I felt a sharp stab in my stomach.
Eriksson powered forward, taking the puck, and soared up the ice. With a perfectly aimed shot, it sailed into the net, lighting up the lamp.
I used to be right there beside him.
My leg bounced in agitation, and I fought to not inhale the freshness of the ice, to feel the sharpness of the cold air filling the arena. I pulled off my beanie and ran my hand through my dark hair. The tattoos on the backs of my hands stood out against my paler skin. Tattoos. So many tattoos and piercings now covered my body, just about erasing any sign of the person I was before.
I closed my eyes when the sounds of warring hockey sticks and boards being slammed into began to instigate a migraine from hell. Jumping to my feet, I pounded down the stairs toward the side door. I had just made it to the hallway when I heard, “Woods?”
I froze mid-step. Heard the sound of Eriksson leaving the ice, bladed feet awkwardly running on the hard surface behind me. But I kept moving, I kept going, avoiding my former best friend until a framed jersey mounted on the arena wall stopped me dead in my tracks. WOODS 33 stood proudly in the hallway. IN MEMORIAM was written on a bronze plaque above it, an individual team picture with his smiling face beaming back at me.
It was a punch right to my gut. I hadn’t been prepared for it. It had sneaked through. It had struck unannounced—
“Cael!” Eriksson’s voice was closer now. I turned my head and saw him approaching, and my heart started to slam against my ribs. The look of hope and excitement on his face almost made my legs give out. “Cael! You should have told me you were coming.” Stephan Eriksson was breathless from trying to catch me. He still held his stick from the practice he’d just run out on, and pulled off his helmet, placing it on the floor by his bladed feet. I just stared at him. I couldn’t make myself move.
He’d been there with me. He’d seen it all with me.
Eriksson’s attention flickered to the framed jersey before me, sadness engulfing his expression. “Coach had it put up a couple of months back. Said some really nice things about him. You were invited, but …”
Shivers ran up my spine, causing every inch of skin on my body to break out in goose bumps. I could see Stephan studying how I looked now. See him looking at my tattooed hands and chest and neck. See him tracking my pierced nose and bottom lip, the black gauges in my ears.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, man,” he said, trying to edge closer. He gestured to the direction of the ice. “For months. We miss you.” He took a deep breath. “I miss you. It’s not the same without you, brother.”
Brother …
That word was like a machete slicing my chest, splitting me where I stood. Feeling the familiar fire melt the ice that had built in me the minute I stepped into this arena, I spat, “I’m not your brother.” Then, looking at the framed jersey that hovered like an omen beside me, I slammed my fist right into the center of the navy-blue number 33. I felt the broken glass dig into my knuckles and the warmth of my blood hit my skin as it began to drip down to my wrist.
“Jesus, Woods! Stop!” Stephan shouted, but I was already pushing out of the exit door and into the darkening winter evening. I ran across the lot, lungs burning, and jumped into my car, ignoring Stephan trying to signal me down from the side door.
What the hell had I been thinking, coming here?