Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I focus on that certainty and force myself to get to sleep so my captain doesn't murder me tomorrow.
The Bangor Badgers practice facility is located just a few miles away from our home arena. The building is equipped with a rink, the best workout facilities a guy could ask for, and the standard locker rooms and showers. There are only a few bleachers that surround the rink, allowing for small audiences when it comes to practice. We're all suited up and lingering on the ice as the new owner—dressed in a suit more expensive than my car—introduces himself from where he stands next to our other coaches on the opposite side of the rink.
“I'm Crossland McClaren,” he says. “I’m sure you're all wondering why I've asked you to come out two weeks earlier than we would for normal practice—”
“We're not wondering,” I cut the owner off. What? I've always struggled with my filter. “We need it. Whatever it is you're about to throw at us has to be because you want to not lose this year, am I wrong?”
McClaren smirks narrows his gaze and shifts his immaculate suit jacket.
Coach Hardin whispers something to McClaren, answering some question, no doubt about the asshole who cut him off.
McClaren smiles, understanding flashing in his eyes as he returns his focus to me. “So you're our number one draft pick,” he says to me.
I nod and puff my chest out proudly.
“I'm the one who's going to turn this team around,” I answer, and a few grumbles from the team sound next to me. It doesn't bother me; I may talk a lot of shit, but I can back it up on the ice.
“Interesting,” McClaren says. “I'll let your performance tell me that, but first let’s get back to basics. This preemptive practice camp isn’t just because I want to win this season, which I do. Badly. It's because I’ve run a successful team out of Calgary for almost a decade. I know how to earn wins. I know what they taste like. I know they take more than one player that was drafted first, no matter how talented their stats out of Denver are.” He cocks a brow at me, and I purse my lips.
That's fair.
“Now,” he continues as if that settled the matter. “This practice is about sharpening skills that you no doubt let get rusty because you're comfortable with them. We have a ton of new faces on the team this year—mine included—and there will be new things we're doing this year—adding flexibility, mindfulness practices, and team exercises into our regular regime. I expect you to meet every requirement with enthusiasm. Whatever your coaches ask of you while you're here in this facility you better meet and exceed, or you'll be traded faster than we can get to our first game. I know the previous owner was a prick, but that's not me. I'm about teamwork because I know that leads us to wins. If you have an issue that's going to get in the way of your performance, come talk to me. I won't be a dick to you like the last owner was. I actually give a shit.”
Coach Hardin nods, something like hope shaping his features as he looks out to the team around me as McClaren gives him the floor.
“I'm going to divide you into groups,” Coach says. “There will be four sections with four focuses, and each one comes with its own expert. One will be strength training, one will be recovery, one will be game strategy, and one will be skate skills.”
Confused chatter erupts among the rookies, several of them voicing what I'm thinking.
“Skate skills?” a rookie named Sanson asks to my left. “Like running drills?”
“Not exactly,” Coach answers before he divides us into groups.
I end up being shifted into the skate skills group, along with a few other rookies, and Clay Kiplin and Nash Stokehill. He's the only one who doesn't seem bothered to be in this group, but the other rookies aren't shy about wearing their attitude on their faces.
“Coach?” I ask, raising my gloved hand after he's done sorting all the players.
We all stand in four groups on the ice, the other coaches and the owner having moved off to the side where the bleachers are.
“I'm all for running drills, but the last thing I need is a brush-up class on how to skate.”
Coach smiles and casually slides his hands into his pockets. He's wearing a Bangor Badger tracksuit, and for some reason he can pull the look off where other people would look like a clown. He's got a real approachable air about him, but of course I haven't seen what he looks like pissed off yet. Knowing me, I'll see it soon.
“You think you're a good skater?” he asks, no maliciousness in his tone.