Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
The fucker is nothing if not upholding his reputation. Even just sitting there, he looks like an asshole. His black hair is as unkempt as his beard, and it matches the ink curling down his neck and beneath his leather jacket.
I'd bet good money that he came here on a motorcycle, looking like he could fit in more with the Sons of Anarchy rather than an NHL team. But I’ve seen plenty of his gametime footage and I completely understand why he’s captain. Of course, now that I’m here, he may actually get some wins while he wears that title.
“If Coach calls it a practice, it's practice to me,” Pax Ritchford says, nodding toward Clay.
I don’t know much about Pax other than that he’s a three-year veteran left defenseman who apparently is loyal as fuck to his captain and veteran teammates.
“Fine,” I say, finally bringing my drink closer to me. “To winning. Let's just start there.” I quickly take a drink, surprised at how tasty the rum concoction is.
Several of the newbies smack the tables in front of them before taking their own drinks, their eagerness evident on their faces. We may have respect for the veterans on the team, but we’re the fresh blood hungry to take this team further than it's ever gone before.
I'm pretty sure I hear Clay grumble fuck off before he takes a sip of his drink, rising from his chair to follow Nash, who is not surprisingly heading toward the miniature golf course where the two brunettes are.
Pax follows them shortly after with a few other veteran Badgers, including Baylor Torrington, a left wing that looks more like a stacked professional wrestler. Pretty sure that guy lives at the gym, and I’m a little shocked he doesn’t have a pair of dumbbells in his hands right now.
I sit back down, observing the not-so-subtle shift in this mandatory fun meeting. The groups are split between veterans and newbies, and a sense of wariness bubbles in my gut. I may like to talk a lot of shit, but I know a divided team will never win. Is that the reason why Bangor sucks so bad?
A wave of injustice washes over me, and not for the first time. When I heard the Bangor Badgers scored the first-round draft pick, I had hoped to fuck they didn't realize how good I was.
With my skills, I deserve to be on a top-five team—the Seattle Sharks or the Carolina Reapers were my dream teams. Definitely not Bangor fucking Maine. I’ve wanted to be a Shark since I was six years old, and I’d done every visualization practice I could to try and score a spot on their team.
Clearly, that shit didn’t work for me.
But whenever I felt the pity party coming on, I remind myself that I busted my ass for four years in college in order to be irresistible to an NHL team. I passed on two different NHL offers straight out of high school because college was important to my mom, and she sacrificed everything for me to be where I'm at today.
She gifted me my first pair of hand-me-down skates at the age of three—the only kind we could afford at the time. I wouldn’t let her down because I got drafted onto a losing team.
Like I told all the guys a few minutes ago, that would change now.
I chat with a few of the new guys and answer their questions—all the surface-level, get-to-know-you stuff: Where did I come from? When did I start playing? Who’s my favorite team?
I'm in the middle of telling one of the other rookies how much I love the Seattle Sharks when my eyes snag on a pretty blonde sitting at the bar across the room. She’s stirring the ice in her drink, talking to the bartender with an easy smile on her face. Even from here I can tell she's gorgeous. Her long legs are clad in a pair of jeans, and a loose-fitting cream top covers some deliciously toned curves.
I'm already working out the best way to gain her enthusiastic consent for a night full of fun—because the last thing I'm looking for is a relationship when my first love is the ice—when my thoughts are abruptly interrupted as a guy approaches her.
The rookie I was chatting with pushes away from the table, heading to talk to another group of guys at the next one over. I know I should get back to mingling too—bonding with my new teammates will be crucial before the actual season starts—but there's something about this girl. I can't take my eyes off her, even when my hopes are slightly dashed by the guy talking to her. She seems to know him, at least by the way she turns toward him, leaving her back to me. The only thing I can see now are those beautiful long blonde waves.