Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“Uh…I won’t.”
“Good. Now move your booties. I have paying customers behind you. Mwah!”
I picked up our drinks and popped one of the mini marshmallows floating on top into my mouth, humming my appreciation. “We’re totally going to bingo.”
“No, it’s not fun. Trust me.”
“I’ve never played and Ivan said there’re prizes,” I singsonged, fitting the lid in place and heading outside.
“I thought we were going to the hockey game.”
“We are, but you’re right…next time.” I studied the cheery bustling street, surprised by the sudden maudlin dip in my mood. “Fuck, I keep saying that. Next time, next week, next season. It’s not a throwaway sentiment when the clock is ticking and nothing feels settled.”
“I know. Life requires a lot of patience, doesn’t it? We want quick change and immediate answers, but it rarely works that way. But they say the best things are worth waiting for.” Jean-Claude followed my gaze, brushing my knuckles with the softest touch.
To any random passerby, it wouldn’t have seemed significant. To me…it was like holding a lover’s hand in public for the first time. It was a hug or a kiss—something light and breezy but full of promise. I bit the inside of my cheek, nodding as I lifted my cup to my mouth with a trembling hand.
We turned toward the rink and walked silently, lost in our own thoughts.
The Elmwood Eagles were playing a visiting club team from Rutland. It was expected to be a competitive game, but then again, all hockey games were a big deal in this area and I loved that.
The town’s relentless enthusiasm was due in part to having Vinnie Kiminski, retired NHL hometown hero, coach their little darlings. Plain and simple, the legendary D-man drew a crowd and sold tickets. I’d witnessed the frenzy and yeah, I’d been getting the same treatment since I’d started helping out with the occasional practice.
The kids hung on my every word during drills, asked me to sign their jerseys, ball caps, and equipment bags for luck. And their parents waited afterward to talk to me, wanting advice or a piece of my story that might fit whatever they were going through in signing an agent or researching prospective college programs.
There were days I still had major impostor syndrome. I mean, what the fuck did I know about how to make it big? I’d gotten lucky. And now I was hanging on by a thread, worried I was guilty of drinking my own Kool-Aid yet hoping I really still had enough in me to make a difference.
However, as my head cleared and the fog of what I now knew was mild depression lifted, I was a little more generous with myself. My career wasn’t a product of luck, and I still had something to contribute to the sport. I could make a difference. And damn, I felt it walking into that rink with Jean-Claude at my side.
We sat behind the coaches in the seats Vinnie had reserved for us and cheered the Eagles on. After a scoreless first period, one of the new kids, a transfer from Pinecrest, skimmed the crossbar and buried a shot in the back of the net with a minute on the clock in the second. Unfortunately, the Rutland Rangers tied on a power play when we got called on a high-stick penalty.
Vinnie was red-faced, fists clenched, growling testily at the boys to focus. It wasn’t pretty. By the middle of the third period, the Eagles looked like they were playing not to lose, which obviously wasn’t going to get the job done in a tied game.
“Big Red needs space. Get those D-men to move the puck in the zone and give him some room to work,” I blurted, unthinking. I held up a hand, wincing as Nolan shifted to face me. “Sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“No, it’ s okay. Keep going,” Nolan said.
“They’re struggling with their passes and getting gummed up. Get Big Red a lane, and I bet we’ll score.”
Nolan considered me for a beat and whispered to Vinnie, who was stabbing his forefinger into a white board. I waved sheepishly when they both glanced my way.
“Coach Thoreau has a nice ring to it.” Jean-Claude chuckled. “What makes you think Big Red can save the game?”
“Gut feeling. Also…his girlfriend is here, and he’s a bit of a show-off. If he can get clear, he’ll make something happen.”
And he did.
Our defense descended and kicked the puck to Big Red, who scored on a breakaway. The crowd went wild. Every Eagles fan in the building jumped to their feet with a collective roar and stayed there until the final buzzer.
Eagles 2 – Rangers 1.
I slapped high fives with the team, chatted with their parents after the game, and ended up getting conned into a series of selfies with the players and a few random spectators. I congratulated the red-faced Big Red and shook hands with his girlfriend and his folks, then made my way to the bench where Nolan and Vinnie were huddled with a man I assumed was a proud dad.