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)
Ugh.
I bet my lucky fucking skates I haven’t worn in months that she’s not calling with good news.
“Morning, Lopez.”
“Margot said you were headed into the office-”
“I am.”
“Good. However, I wanted you to hear it from inhouse first this time-”
“Hear what?!” I growl during my exiting of the kitchen.
“Things regarding last night’s situation seem to have gotten…worse.”
“Worse?!” The barbaric barking has me bracing myself against the edge of my living room chair that’s closest to me. “How could they possibly have gotten worse?!”
“There was an accident.”
Shutting my eyes in frustration is immediately followed by two fingers soaring to the middle of my forehead to deliver a soothing rub.
I can’t fucking handle worse.
I already can’t fucking handle whatever this shit is.
Fuck. Me.
Maybe everyone’s right.
Maybe the whispers and the gossip and the well thought out opinion pieces ran on the blogs and discussed during podcasts are fucking right.
Maybe I don’t need to be the owner.
Or the GM.
Or a wife.
Maybe I should just give it all up, move to Greece, and forget everything and anything that has to do with this fucking sport. Maybe I should just become a fucking museum tour guide. Live in a tiny hilltop home. Teach my kids to appreciate the country’s beaches and loukoumades the way my dad did me.
At least then I wouldn’t be ruining his legacy anymore but finally fucking honoring it.
Brendan
You know having to work hungover is a bitch.
But having to work hungover after taking a goddamn Uber here because your wife left without you, and you left your car in the bar parking lot so that you wouldn’t drive home drunk is a whole other fucking story.
And once you add in this loud ass skate sharpening machine to the mix, it’s then the trifecta of a fucked-up morning.
Worst part is…I can deal with the throbbing in my head. I’ve pretty much made peace with that.
However, this ache in my fucking chest from hearing the woman I love regret falling in love with me?
Well, that shit hurts a million times more.
Running the edge of the steel against the sharpener requires focus and a steady hand—two things that are in short supply when you feel like shit. Thankfully, the holder does the heavy lifting in that department, leaving me the responsibility of simply ensuring that I rotate the skate properly. Slow enough that each centimeter gets caressed but not so slow that the skate gets an uneven finish.
I’m grateful that the ice girls’ skates don’t require the same constant maintenance or conversations that the players do. From what I’ve been told and learned firsthand over the past few months, some of the boys prefer hitting the ice with the freshest steel possible, which means me sharpening their blades multiple times a day. Those are the ones I’ve come to believe are a little more dedicated, not necessarily because they need something from us every day, but because of that desire to only work in top condition. Craig—who has done the job for years—explained it’ll come to a point where instead of them approaching us about steel replacements, that we’ll have that connection to go to them. That we won’t have to be told to have their backups packed and sharpened and ready to go everywhere we go because it’ll be second nature. Also, while walking me through the more extensive steel replacement process, he educated me on other procedures to be aware of and signs that will help us—the new equipment team—be more proactive than reactive, which will be great for the boys.
Harlow’s said similar shit about other situations like learning allergies and towel preferences and who to sleep next to on the plane.
Honestly, that’s the shit I love most about working for this franchise.
It’s a giant fucking family.
A family that I find myself willing to do anything to help or protect.
At the end of the second cycle, completing this pair of skates needs, an unexpected voice calls out to me, “Bricks.”
I glance over my shoulder to spot Margot standing in the doorway, expression more rattled than I’m used to. “You good?”
“I don’t think I’ve been good since I took that signing bonus for this gig,” she sassily sighs and flicks her hair away from her face. “However, this isn’t about me and my goodness, but Hennington and hers.”
Culpability causes me to divert my efforts to putting guards back on the freshly sharpened objects. “Yeah, well, I can’t exactly make her good when she won’t even let me put a fucking word in the conversation.”
Not that I exactly had the best shit to throw out there.
Damn sure didn’t have dick after she lined the bar with shot after shot after shot of the hell she struggles with daily.
Fuck, it has never been clearer why she pushes herself as hard as she does.
Why she has to.
What her dad—may he rest in peace—tried to protect her from.