Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Footsie—his actual name was Daniel Foote—was the groom, and his wedding was tomorrow afternoon. Paul, Footsie, and I had been friends since elementary school. We’d all played hockey together before I went on to Juniors and they played for our high school team. But we’d stayed close.
“Cool,” I said. “I’ll just do what you do. I’m gonna go find Footsie and say hi.”
It was easy to spot him—he was always the tallest guy in any room. At six foot three, I wasn’t short, but Footsie had a few inches on me, and he was built like a fucking tank. With his wide shoulders, blond hair, and thick beard, he looked like a Viking.
“Lupo!” Footsie’s long arms engulfed me. “Good to see you, man!”
“You too. Sorry I missed the rehearsal.”
He waved a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Joe Lupo! You’re late!” Footsie’s fiancée Lisa approached and wagged a finger at me. I hadn’t been around her all that much, just enough to feel kind of sorry for my old buddy. She was always on his ass about something. Perfect example of why I didn’t want a girlfriend.
“Sorry, Lisa.” I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Flight was delayed.”
“Just be on time tomorrow, okay? And at some point tonight I want to introduce you to Jackie—she’s your assigned bridesmaid for tomorrow night.” She giggled. “She’s very excited.”
“Okay.” I did not want to be assigned a bridesmaid, but I tried not to let it show on my face.
Lisa tugged Footsie’s elbow and looked up at him. “Babe, I need you for a minute.”
Exhaling, he looked at me. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” I held up my palms. “I’m going to grab a beer.”
Back at the bar, I caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a beer. When he brought it, I could tell he recognized me.
“Dude,” he said. “Are you Joe Lupo?”
I nodded. “Hey.”
“Dude,” he said again. “That goal you scored in the last game against Toronto in the Western Conference finals was insane. Fucking bar down.”
“Thanks.”
“Sucks you didn’t win the cup. I was rooting for Chicago over Florida.”
“We’ll get it next time.”
The bartender shook his head. “Fucking Florida, man. Do they even have ice?”
I laughed. “They do.”
He shrugged. “Anyway, good to meet you. Beer is on the house.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Bottle in hand, I walked back to my brother and puffed up my chest. “Sorry that took a while, I had to sign a few autographs at the bar.”
“Fuck off,” he said good-naturedly. “Did you really?”
“Nah.” Laughing, I tipped up my beer. “The bartender recognized me though. I got a free beer.”
“Like you can’t afford to buy a beer.” Paul shook his head. “Man, your life is something else.”
“Hey, I worked my ass off to get where I am. And I have to work even harder to stay where I am.” It was the truth. Competition for roster spots in the NHL was tough, and at thirty-two, I wasn’t a young phenom anymore. Every year, a new crop of rookies came up, every single one of them hungry for their shot. They were fast, aggressive, and talented as fuck.
It only made me fight harder to stay in the game.
The Stanley Cup was the greatest prize in any sport, and I wanted that ring before I hung up my skates. I’d worked my entire life for it. Sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears. Spent thousands of hours on the ice—not to mention thousands of my parents’ dollars on training, travel, and equipment. I didn’t just want it for me—I wanted it for everyone who’d ever believed in me, from my family to my coaches to my friends and teammates.
I also wanted it for every naysaying asshole who’d scoffed at my dreams and told me I didn’t have what it took. If I didn’t have something, I worked on it until I got it, for the sheer love of the sport. For the rush I got from the win. For the unbeatable thrill of being one of the best in the game.
For as long as I could hang on to it.
“How’s that shoulder?” Paul asked.
“Fine. It was only a partial tear. All I needed was some PT this summer.”
“How many more years do you think you have in you, old man?”
I tipped up my beer. “As many as it takes.”
“And then what?”
“Fuck if I know. I don’t think about it.”
“Well, you can always come back home and play on our rec team.”
“The Dad Bod Squad?” I laughed. “No thanks.”
“Come on, we have a good time!”
I gave him a smirk. “We have a better time in the NHL.”
He shook his head. “Sometimes I still can’t believe you got there. You’re so damn lucky. I mean, I had the exact same genes. Why did I get the skinny legs and the crap eyesight?”
“We can’t all be winners, Paul. Somebody has to sit in the stands and cheer when I score.”