Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 95559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
It’s Friday and we have a home game tonight. Regardless of whether we win or lose, people will congregate at our house. Fans and classmates want to celebrate or mourn with us. It’s funny because if the hockey boys are out and about at one of the restaurants, locals will buy our beer and dinner. It’s like we’re doing God’s work or something when in reality, all we’re doing is winning. We bring pride to Northport, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.
I’m the first one to wake this morning. It’s chilly in the house and the stairs creak with old age. I adjust the thermostat when I get to the main floor and wait for the heat to kick on. Our house is in rough shape. The landlord doesn’t exactly take care of it because it’s the hockey house, so repairs are minimal. We call him if something isn’t working and maybe, if we’re lucky, he shows up in a timely manner. During the season, the mention of tickets sitting at will call usually gets him here faster. Once the heat starts streaming through the vents, I make my way into the kitchen. Ever since Thanksgiving, I’ve spent more time at home. I’ve tried to find a way to talk to Thea about what she saw, but she’s short with me. It’s “hi” and “bye” or she’ll tell me there’s a plate waiting for me in the refrigerator if I happen to come home early from a shift. Honestly, I’m surprised she still cooks for me. If I were her, I wouldn’t even bother because I’m not worth it. On the nights I go fight, I don’t come home at all and usually crash at the bar, in the office on the cot, or sleep in my car in my mother’s driveway. I suppose being a loner has its perks.
Turning on the tap, I let the water run for a couple of seconds before filling the glass carafe to the top line, and then I pour it into the coffee maker. I add a new filter, the coffee grounds, and then turn the coffee pot on to brew. Why we don’t set this thing at night, I’ll never understand. I know we all have different schedules, but most of us want coffee before we start to act like civilized humans.
The first set of footsteps are heavy, and when Nolan enters the kitchen, his eyes light up. I feel like I’m in the middle of a Folgers commercial and Peter’s just come home for Christmas. It’s very picturesque with Nolan staring at me, his hair standing on end, and his red robe untied. I chuckle and hand him a mug, while I wait for the coffee to brew.
“I was just wondering why we don’t set the timer on this thing at night.”
“Because we’d never remember and we’d still be here at the crack of dawn, waiting for a cup of Joe.”
“You’re probably right,” I say to him. Behind us, there are more footsteps, followed by a grumble. “Morning,” Devon says as he comes into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, huffs, and then closes it. “I’m getting breakfast at the Pit.”
The Pit is a local diner for students near campus. It’s not really a pit, in the word sense, but a state-of-the-art dining space with televisions, sofas lined up against the walls, tons of seating, and probably fifteen different options. They have world cuisine, sandwiches, an ice cream bar, and make-your-own whatever. There’s even a Sunday Dinner counter because the founder of Northport is British and wants to pay homage to his roots. I’m not complaining because I love a good roast.
“See ya,” Nolan says through a yawn.
“Up late?”
“Yeah, texting.”
“What’s her name?” I ask.
He shrugs.
Most of us think Nolan has a girl back home but he won’t say. He never flirts with anyone, unless you count Millie, and they seem to have more of a brother/sister sort of relationship. He antagonizes her, and she tolerates him.
When the coffee is done brewing, I pull the pot out and pour myself a cup first before filling Nolan’s cup. We both drink ours black, but Thea likes to put creamer in hers. Right now, there’s about five or six different flavors clogging the inside of the door. Everything from pumpkin spice, to peppermint, to eggnog. If there’s a flavor, we have it. And I’ve tried them. They’re gross. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy pumpkin pie and peppermint candy, but not in my coffee especially when it has already been roasted and tastes like something—not sure what that something is—but it has its own taste. I don’t think it needs any extra flavoring, especially French vanilla.
“Coffee,” Thea says as she comes into the kitchen. I hand her a mug because I’m the one standing in front of the cabinet and reach for the pot to pour her some. She’s in her robe. It’s thick, pink, and fluffy, and turns me on. Well, the robe doesn’t, but the person wearing it does. Each time I’ve tried to talk to her, she lets me know she’s not interested in what I have to say. Thea always has her noise-canceling headphones with her or she gets a phone call. Anything to avoid having a meaningful conversation. Although, I don’t blame her. I haven’t given her anything meaningful since I met her, except for the night we spent in my bed.