Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Eeyore’s voice has me simultaneously doing two important things.
Ignoring Page.
And focusing on the goal.
Regaining my balance is followed by an ugly sprint stretch of crossing the wobbly path to the next portion. As much as my frame shakes, threatening to tumble me over into the pit of foam bricks below, I hold steady onto the rope. Breathe it out and keep moving towards the next portion. Thankfully crawling through the spider web ropes is much easier. In and out and in and out I weave, winding and worming myself through the bigger opening, noting my next move versus simply waiting for it to come to me when I get there. Swinging from the dangling chains requires upper body strength I’m grateful to have and hearing the boys cheer me on with steady positive shit really does keep my head in the contest.
Guess this is why they’re always yelling during games.
Real teammates support each other.
Not drag one another down regardless of the venue.
Or sport.
Or situation.
That’s the point Blanc wants to drive home today.
Kind of like that’s the point I’ve been trying to skate home to Harlow.
“Atta boy!” Snowman shouts in excitement as my feet hit the ground for the final stretch. “Wooo! Get it done!”
Grabbing the rope to climb the padded wall occurs in a single swift movement. I hoist myself up the high distance, stomping with determination each stage of my progress, determined to bring my team victory rather than myself. Managing to reach the top happens just minor moments ahead of Page; however, it’s undoubtedly enough. Sliding down the sloped backside into the ball pit gives us the dub and hopefully Page the kick in the dick he needs.
Victory fist bumps barely precede the whistle blow to wrap shit up to head back to the buses. Seating for the ride home has the players divided up by positions with those of us that don’t take the ice randomly choosing wherever we want.
Gratitude over the chance to finally feel as though I belong here floods my system during the trip back to the rink as well as during the duration of the phone call to my mom. I ramble a little bit about what we did, how Harlow’s been feeling lately, and which dates we’re looking at for her to come up and visit during pre-season.
The fact my woman told me she’d fly whoever I wanted down to visit whenever I wanted them to visit whether she uses her plane or pays for their ticket and that they could crash with us was some of the sweetest shit anyone’s ever said to me. She tried to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, but it was. She was basically acknowledging that she accepts the fact I’m not going anywhere.
Not now.
Not ever.
And the way she slyly called it “our home” had me expressing my approval on top of a fresh pile of laundry that didn’t exactly stay fresh after that.
Ending the call with Mom happens at the foot of the steps and just when I drop my jaw to announce to Harlow I’m back, she shouts, “What the fuck is that shit?!” A beat passes before another outburst. “That’s not where grandma keeps the fucking cookies!”
Perplexity pierces my stare along the remainder of my walk.
That’s a hockey reference.
We’re not in season yet.
Fuck, we’re not even in training season yet.
She also doesn’t use terms for her beloved sport on other sports. She just shifts shoptalk the best she can—which is always fucking impressive—and keeps the conversation going.
Arriving in the doorway to our bedroom reveals to me a sight so unexpected I almost feel guilty for interrupting it.
Sprawled out in the middle of the bed is Harlow surrounded by empty root beer cans, a half-eaten pizza in the box, and partially nibbled on wings damn near spilling out of the container. Her attention and heated words seem to be completely plastered on the cooking show that’s playing on the flat screen on the opposite wall. “How’d you fucking learn to make brownies, bitch?! With an Easy-Bake Oven?!”
I lean against the edge of the doorframe. “Strong chirping from someone who didn’t even know there was difference between fudge brownies and cake brownies.”
Her head instantly whips over to me, mirth skating around her expression. “I know it when it’s my mouth.”
“That’s what she said.”
The juvenile joke gets the giggle I was hoping for. “You’re home early.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah, I figured you’d go to The Net with the boys after. Have a few beers. Keep the whole teambuilding shit going.”
I let the corner of my lip curl upward. “Missed you too much.”
“Ugh. You’re such a fucking girl.”
Her response receives a slow nod and small chuckle.
“Next time go for a beer with the boys.”
“So you can chirp housewives dressed up as Disney Villains in peace?”
She playfully waggles her eyebrows. “Nah, chirping is always more fun with a teammate.”