Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Top performance on the ice.” I finish the thought easily having heard it since I was in youth hockey.
His voice crackles through the line, persistent and unwavering. “You need to fuel your body right, son.”
“I’m like a Bugatti, Dad,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Good. That’s what we want on the ice. The better you fuel yourself, the lower the chance of injury. The lower the chance of injury, the more ice time…”
The better the chance for a great season and so on. I don’t really disagree. I’ve just heard it before, and there’s no mood lightening with Mister Serious, so I let it go.
“I know,” I say, as I leave the kitchen and head into the living room, staring longingly at the TV and the video game controller. A round of zombie slaying would be real nice right now.
“Are you heading to the gallery? Your walls were almost bare the last time I was at your place.”
So much for destroying the undead. Or seeing some of my teammates. I was this close to a round of pool with Max, Hugo, and Asher when Dad swooped in earlier today with his request. No, his insistence that I attend his new conquest’s—sorry, his girlfriend’s—art gallery show.
“On my way, Dad,” I say, as upbeat as I can manage about checking out the exhibit Frieda’s created called Dark Futures—whatever that is. But it feels fitting—the future of this night is dark, even though I’m still meeting my guys—just a little later now. I’m going to need to detox after an evening at an art gallery.
I glance at the handful of framed concert posters I hung in the townhome I bought when I was traded to this team last February. “What’s wrong with the art I have?”
“Tame Impala? Wesley, you’re not a rock critic or a beat poet,” he says.
Are concert posters the de facto art of beat poets? I scratch my jaw. “Is anyone even a poet anymore?”
It’s another attempt to lighten the mood, but Dad sighs heavily. I can picture him in his office in Los Angeles, where he works half the time—thank god he’s most of the state away. I bet he’s pinching the bridge of his nose.
“That’s not the point. The point is it’s a contract year, and you need to manifest an attitude of success. Remember what I’ve told you?”
Repeat after me. “Be the whole athlete,” I say, and it’s empty but he won’t be able to tell.
“It’s a mentality, Wesley. And Frieda is expecting you so you should go.”
Well, I’d hate to disappoint his flavor of the month. “I’ll manifest a new persona as an art connoisseur.”
“Perfect.”
My sarcasm was entirely lost on him.
I hang up, then head to the garage, passing a sleek mirror in the foyer on the way. Wait. I can’t wear a polo shirt. Frieda will tell Dad, then he’ll say I’m not looking the part.
Having your father as an agent is no joke. But the dude is sick with contracts, and a beast in negotiations, so I change into a tailored sage green dress shirt I usually only wear on game days with a suit.
I hop into my electric car and take off for the gallery at the edge of Hayes Valley, where I snag a sweet parking spot. When I get out, I check the gallery address once more. Passing by quaint cafés and designer boutiques, I picture the season ahead. Our training camp has gone well. Our first game is in less than a week, and if chicken and squash bowls do the trick for me on the ice, then fine. Bring them on.
When I pass The Scoop, a small-batch ice cream shop though, I try to manifest a hatred for ice cream. But my manifesting skills are not that good. My mouth is watering for a salted caramel cone.
No way is that on the meal plan.
I jerk my gaze away, then head down the block, weaving through the evening crowds, bracing myself for an encounter with Frieda with her slicked-back hair and fake British accent. Maybe I can avoid her. Perhaps she’ll be so busy entertaining clients, I can pop in, go eenie, meenie, miney, moe at the walls, and then head to the bar with my friends. I’ll be in and out in a flash, like a breakaway shot to the net.
And I’ll still get credit for having shown up.
But when the gallery comes into view, the tall, bird-like woman is staring down her nose at…what in the ever-loving fuck is that other woman wearing?
I peer more closely at the subject of Frieda’s disdain. A brunette with wavy hair, dressed in a long T-shirt and fuzzy slippers with a flowery black scarf tied around her waist. That’s not what people wear to art galleries. That’s what people wear when it’s laundry day.