Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Ouch. But look on the bright side: he didn’t fuck your sister.”
“I said I don’t have a—”
Bjorn’s gone before I get the sentence out—geared up and stalking out the locker room.
I shake my head. Tommy wonders why I haven’t clicked with my teammates yet. I’ve been here for months but haven’t made friends. I’ve been thrown in the deep end, and I feel like the new kid at school. My game is suffering because of it; I know that. Maybe Tommy makes a point when he says I don’t trust anyone on the team because I can’t be one hundred percent honest with them.
I’ve faced off with many of these guys in the past, but that’s business. And skating with them, I do feel the connection there sometimes—like we get each other—but then the next minute, I’ll expect someone to be where I want them to be on the ice, and they’re somewhere completely different. I don’t know how to be me and build trust with these people or how to force teamwork that’s not flowing.
We’re lucky we have a shot at the playoffs at all with some of the mistakes we’ve made.
Kessler, the right-winger on my line, turns to me. “Ignore Bjorn. He doesn’t have that thing in his brain that stops him from spouting shit.”
“Or using colorful language, obviously.” I continue to get ready but avoid eye contact while I wait for Kessler’s reaction. Let’s see if we can be oh for two on the gay-friendly scale.
“Uh … yeah. I promise not all of us are dicks.”
I nod. “Good to know.”
“But you’d know that if you came out for a drink with us every now and then. Just sayin’.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” I say.
Kessler smiles. “We should get out there.”
I finish gearing up and grab my hockey stick and helmet. “Did Coach say what we were doing today?”
“Penalty drills.”
I groan.
“My sentiments exactly,” Kessler says, and I follow him down the chute and out to the rink.
As soon as my skates hit the ice and I start warming up, I feel eyes burning into me. Without needing to search the press area, I know Lennon’s tracking me with his gaze, but when I turn to scowl at him, he’s talking to the guy beside him.
Must be wishful thinking then …
I tell my conscience to fuck off.
The more I think about the benefit, the angrier I get and the more aggressive I become. Clark was this perfect guy, and it’s disappointing to find out the reality is a lot less appealing. Not that he looks any less appealing. He’s like a poison apple from all those fairy tales. Pretty on the outside but can destroy me if I take a bite.
The team’s been on the ice for about an hour when Kessler passes me the puck, and I charge past the blue line, but Bjorn is right there.
He slashes my ankle, but the coaches miss it. Which pisses me off even more. They don’t miss me illegally body-checking him though.
A loud whistle blows.
Of course.
“Strömberg! You’re already a man down and you’re pulling this shit? Get your head out of your ass and in the game.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say, breathlessly.
“You fucked your line.”
Sounds fun. I keep that tidbit to myself.
Coach throws his hands up and yells, “Change it up.”
I skate my way to the bench, and this time when my eyes lock with Lennon, he’s staring right at me. It’s impossible to decipher his expression. It almost looks sympathetic, but that can’t be right. I can already see the article about Ollie Strömberg crumbling under the pressure and making stupid mistakes in practice.
I’m already on edge without him being here making it worse, yet I still find myself drawn to him.
Ugh.
“Strömberg!”
Fuck, I zoned out, and I realize more than a few minutes have passed. I jump over the rail and get back into the drill, but my head’s not in it. If I’m honest with myself, my head hasn’t been in the game since the trade.
I’m in a rut, and I don’t know how to pull myself out of it.
In the middle of a play, music blasts through the speakers of the arena with Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” It’s followed by a round of expletives that echo around the rink.
We all stop on the ice and stare up at the DJ booth.
At my last meeting with Damon, he asked if I knew of any jobs available at the arena. Matt Jackson’s brother needed work, and it happened to work out that our game DJ had resigned, so I put Jet’s name forward. He got the job, but listening to him scrambling to turn the music off while swearing his heart out in a thick drawl, I’m beginning to wonder how he made it through the interview.