Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
“Come on, guys!” Summer screams. “Let’s do this!” Her shouted encouragement is drowned out by the shouts of everyone around us.
My ears are going to be ringing hardcore after this game, but it’s worth it. There’s nothing better than live hockey. The excitement in the air is contagious. Addictive. I want to be able to do this for a living, not as a player, but a participant. I want to cheer for these athletes, talk to them while they’re still hopped up on whatever it is that makes them come alive on the ice. Adrenaline, talent, pride. I want to be part of that, in whatever capacity I can.
Three minutes left, and the score remains 3-3.
Jake’s line is back. Brooks is up to his usual tricks, except no one’s falling for them anymore. I think it’s pissing him off, judging by the hard set of his shoulders. Good. He deserves it. It won’t be dirty tricks that win Harvard this game. It’ll have to be skill. Unfortunately, they’re drowning in skilled players
There’s exactly two minutes and forty-six seconds left when Jake gets a breakaway. My heart is torn, sinking when he gets the puck, and yet soaring when he nears our net. He winds up his arm to take a shot, and it’s another work of art. A gorgeous bullet. When the announcers shout, “GOALLLLLL!” my heart is somehow caught in both a tailspin and a steep climb. I’m surprised I don’t vomit from the nauseating sensation.
Harvard is in the lead now, and we’ve only got two and a half minutes to try to tie it up again. The Briar fans in the arena are screaming. The clock keeps ticking.
Two minutes left.
A minute and a half.
Briar scrambles. Fitz gets a shot on net, and a collective groan rocks half the stands when Johansson stops it. The goalie holds on, and the whistle blows.
I cup my mouth with both hands. “Come on, boys!” I shout as they line up for the faceoff. They have one minute and fifteen seconds to make something happen.
But Coach Pedersen is no fool. He puts his best guys on the ice for the last minute, treating it like a penalty kill. It’s the A-Team: Will Bray and Dmitry Petrov on defense; Connelly, Weston, and Chilton filling the forward slots. And they’re so fucking solid. The puck remains in their possession the entire time. Harvard is on the attack and Corsen is like a ninja, fending off shot after shot after shot. And although it helps us, this is not what we need to be doing. We shouldn’t be stopping bullets, we should be unleashing our own.
Ten seconds to go. Disappointment forms in my belly. I peer toward the Briar bench, seeking out my dad. His face is completely expressionless, but his jaw holds a lot of tension. He knows what’s about to happen.
BUZZZZZ!
The third period is over.
Briar loses.
Harvard wins.
“I can’t believe this.” Summer tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear as she and I stand in one corner of the lobby. “I feel so bad for Fitzy.”
“Me too. And for the rest of the guys.”
“Well, of course. Them, too.” She rests her head against my shoulder, her glum gaze fixed on the entry to the corridor. We’re waiting for the players to come out, and we’re not the only ones. Fans and puck bunnies alike loiter in the cavernous space, ready to offer support and comfort to both the winners and the losers. At least most of the Briar guys will get laid without much effort tonight.
Since it’s an away game, my father and the guys have to ride the bus back to campus. Some Harvard players trickle out first, and the girlfriends and groupies swarm like bees. Jake and Brooks appear, both looking undeniably fine in their dark suits. I love whoever came up with the after-game dress code. Their suit jackets stretch across impossibly broad shoulders, and my heart does a little flip when I notice Jake’s hair is still damp from the shower. Which plants in my head the image of a naked Jake in the shower. Which is delicious.
Weston’s face lights up when he spots Summer. “Di Laurentis!” He saunters over and opens his arms for a hug.
She glowers at him. “Don’t you dare. No hugs tonight.”
“Come on, don’t be a sore loser.” He widens his arms.
After a moment, she gives him a quick hug.
Jake winks at me from over Weston’s shoulder and Summer’s head.
My lips curve slightly. “Good game, Connelly.”
I see him fighting a smile. “Thanks, Jensen.”
Summer steps out of Weston’s embrace. “So,” she tells him. “Looks like your penalty provoking didn’t work too well in the second and third.”
“Yeah, the refs got meaner after the Jonah thing.”
“The Jonah thing?” she echoes, poking Brooks in the center of his chest. “It was more than a ‘thing’! He broke Hunter’s wrist!”