Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I snort, leaning in conspiratorially. “Oh, 100%. The pictures of ‘him with his buddy’s dog’ thing? Classic bait. And have you seen the comments? Barf. ‘Oh, Gio, you’re so amazing,’ and he laps it up.”
She smirks. “You know what would make my night? If the man himself showed up here and overheard us dragging his entire existence.”
I raise my glass. “If that happens, drinks are on me.”
“My name is Nova, by the way,” she says, finally letting a giggle slip.
“Oh—oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I say, suddenly realizing how much I’ve been ranting. “I’m Austin—like the city. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Kyle,” the bartender chimes in, completely unprompted.
Nova and I both freeze for a second, glancing at each other before bursting into full-on laughter.
Not to be rude but no one asked for his name.
Certainly not us.
Kyle shrugs, smirking like he’s somehow part of the conversation and in on the jokes. “What? Figured I’d introduce myself, too.”
I tilt my head, giving Kyle a look. “Well, Kyle, now that we’re on a first-name basis, do you have any thoughts on Montagalo’s tragic inability to stop a puck?”
Kyle doesn’t miss a beat. “Guy’s got butterfingers, for sure. But at least he’s consistent.”
Nova snorts into her drink, her shoulders shaking. “Consistently terrible.”
Kyle shrugs, grabbing a rag to wipe the counter. “Consistent is consistent. Besides, I’m a Bruins fan, so, you know…” He shrugs again, like this confession is supposed to mean something profound.
I clutch my chest, pretending to be mortally offended. “A Bruins fan? Here I thought we were starting to bond.”
Kyle waves his rag at us like he’s shooing a couple of flies. “Oh, don’t mind me. Doing my job here.” He claps twice. “Do. Your. Job!”
He’s mocking me.
“Dude!” Nova absolutely loses it, clutching her stomach as she laughs. “Kyle’s got jokes!”
I roll my eyes, but can’t stop the smile from widening on my face. “You two are the worst.”
Kyle winks. “Cheers to that.”
2
gio
We didn’t lose the game. We ran out of time…
The locker room is a mess—towels draped over benches, water bottles knocked on their sides, and the faint hum of the overhead lights buzzing like they’re mocking us. The air is heavy, thick with sweat and disappointment, clinging to everything like a second skin. Dirty socks are strewn across the floor, mingling with drenched, musty pads that have been thrown aside in frustration.
It smells like defeat.
Mine.
Ours.
A unique, sour stench that’s somehow worse than the usual hockey funk. Defeat has a scent all its own, one that seeps into your pores and lingers long enough to remind you how badly you’ve failed.
I sit on the bench, staring at the scuffed tile floor as if it holds the answers I’m looking for. It doesn’t. My mask dangles from my hand, the plastic still damp, still sticky, like it’s absorbed every bad decision I made out there tonight.
The chatter is subdued, voices muffled by exhaustion and bruised egos.
No one wants to talk about it, but everyone’s thinking the same thing: we blew it.
Or worse—they’re thinking I blew it.
You let them down, Montagalo. Again.
What are they paying you for?
“Montagalo,” Coach’s gruff voice snaps through the haze, and I look up instinctively, my heart sinking further at the sight of his expression.
Stern.
Tired.
Disappointed.
“You good?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. It’s a subtle demand for an explanation—one I don’t have. Not yet, my brain is too tired to come up with excuses. Too tired to explain why I bit it.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I reply, voice sounding hollow. “Sitting here thinking.”
I sound like a pussy. A wuss.
Coach narrows his eyes; for a second, I think he might start screaming in my face—the way he was screaming during the game. Instead, he shakes his head.
Frustrated.
He wants better from me. Hell, I want better from me.
No one is more disappointed in my performance than I am.
“Think less,” he demands shrewdly. “React more.”
With that, he’s gone, moving on to someone else to give cold advice to; it won’t make us feel better or add goals to the scoreboard.
Sure, our defense didn’t exactly show up tonight, but I’m the goalie.
The last line of defense.
The one who’s supposed to clean up everyone else’s messes.
And I didn’t.
I sit for several more moments, letting Coach’s words settle.
Think less. React more.
Easier said than done, yeah? Out on the ice, there’s no room for hesitation. No space for second-guessing. But tonight, all I could do was think—and every thought led to another mistake.
I put my mask into my bag, the action mechanical. Automatic.
I’ve packed my shit thousands of times.
Around me, the guys move, talking in low tones that sound distant—I feel like I’m watching through a fogged-up window.
The locker room remains weighed down by our failure and unmet expectations.
“Gee,” Dominic Gagnon calls my nickname from across the room, his toothless grin annoyingly wide for a dude who lost his third game in a row. “You coming to Blanco?”