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)
It’s the last straw for the coaches, and they give up. “You’re skating like newborn foals out there. You think that’s gonna get us to the playoffs?”
“He’s great with the pep talk, ain’t he?” Kessler says beside me.
“Can baby horses even skate?” I ask, and Kessler tries to hide a laugh.
“Get off my ice,” Coach says. “And Strömberg, come to my office when you’re showered.”
A chorus of “Oooh” and “Someone’s in trouble” rumbles through the arena until Coach yells at everyone to cut the shit.
All I can think is I’m about to be sent back down to the AHL.
I perch on the edge of the seat in Coach’s office—as much as my big frame allows me to anyway.
“Is there anything going on that we need to discuss? A problem with anyone on the team …” Coach starts.
I sit up straighter. “What? No. Nothing like that’s going on.”
He leans back in his chair. “Something’s gotten in your head. I thought when you first came to us that the trade might’ve messed you up a bit, but there’s something still missing out there.”
Where to start. It’s the trade, it’s my sexuality, it’s wondering if giving up my relationship with Ash was worth it, it’s Lennon’s articles, it’s … everything.
“We fought hard to get you, because you’re one of the best wingers in the league. Or, you could be if you’d drop your hesitance out there. Boston didn’t want to let you go. We knew how desperate they were for Malik, and we wanted the best in return.”
“Should’ve tried for Novak, then,” I mumble.
“So, you’re saying your stats are only because of Tommy Novak?”
“No,” I say way too quickly. Admitting that would be like saying Lennon’s article made good points. “Tommy and I made a great team is all, and I still don’t know any of the guys here yet, but I promise to make more of an effort. Kessler said something about hanging out or whatever. I’ll push harder, I’ll—”
Coach holds up his hand. “Your position’s not in danger. I asked you in here to see if there’s anything I can do to help if something’s going on, because you’re not the same kid on the ice here that you were in Boston.”
He’s right, and I know I need to up my game.
“I’ll find a way to do better.”
Coach nods. “Go on, get out of here.”
Defeated and pissed off—at myself mostly, but my brain still wants to blame Lennon for some reason—I leave his office only to be assaulted by more swearing through the arena speakers.
Sounds like Jet’s having as a good a day as I am.
Instead of heading for the exit, I take the stairs up to where the DJ booth is, because having someone like Jet and his brother on my side will be a good thing in the long run.
Jet was on stage at the benefit, but the difference in his appearance as he opens the door is astounding. The guy on stage wore tight, ripped jeans, heavy guyliner, and an old T-shirt. His shaggy hair was slicked in the front but messy in the back, like a mini Russel Brand, but right now, it’s loose and wild around his face and neck, there’s no makeup, and he’s in black slacks and a Dragons sweater vest. After seeing him glammed up, he kinda looks ridiculous.
“Hey. Jet, right?”
He stares at me, wide-eyed and flustered.
“You’re … you’re Oll—” Recognition dawns on his face. “Thank fuck. I thought management was on their way up here to rip me a new one.”
I stifle a laugh as I step past him. On the dashboard of his equipment is a bright red light labeled mic. I point to the button and switch it off.
Jet’s face falls, and his skin turns ashen. “Oh fuck, I’m so fired.”
“Don’t worry, in Gordie Howe’s own words, ‘Hockey players are bilingual. They know English and profanity.’ It’s nothing no one here hasn’t heard a million times before, and the offices are generally empty at this time. But, uh, you might not want to do that during the game tomorrow.”
Jet slumps and falls back into his chair. “I’m in way over my head.”
“You know, when I asked Damon if you knew how to DJ, he gave me the impression you did.”
“I’m a musician. Apparently, Damon doesn’t know the difference. But I need this job. I can’t go back to being a server or I run the serious risk of breaking plates over rude assholes’ heads.”
“Damon warned me you can be blunt.”
He also said I’d like this guy, and I think he’s right.
“If it makes you feel any better, I know what you mean,” I say. “I bussed tables throughout high school.” I make my way over to the computer and pull up a spare chair. “I guess we should start with the basics.”