Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Chapter 26
Tanner
From my sitting position on the floor, I continue to bounce the tennis ball against the side of the island with my right to catch it with my left, attention focused on the hand eye activity rather than my parents on video chat or the faint sound of Shakira coming from the flat screen. “I meet with the GM and Coach in an hour.”
“To discuss a trade?” Father gingerly inquires.
“Likely.” Switching throwing hands smoothly occurs. “I did not exactly play well in the last two games.”
“No,” Father reluctantly sighs, “you did not play your best.”
“I played my worst.”
“Nahhhhh,” Dad argues, warranting my stare once the ball is back in my possession. “Your worst was your rookie game in The Show. You somehow went from Bure to Bambi.”
There’s no stopping the laughs that escape. “I was nervous!”
“And it showed.” He joins in on the chuckling. “I swore they were going to send your ass down to the minors.”
“Had I not scored that night they might’ve.”
My silky mitts have always been my selling factor.
Truthfully?
I hoped they would be my keeping factor as well.
“What does Arden think about you possibly being traded?” Father slyly questions, spurring me to return to playing catch with myself.
The lack of response prompts Dad to investigate further, “She doesn’t know, does she?”
“No.”
“Have you spoken with her?” Father follows up. “At all?”
“No.”
“Have you fucking tried?” Dad bluntly pokes.
“Repeatedly.”
“And?” they chime in tandem.
“And it is last in the league impossible to plead with someone for forgiveness when the aforementioned won’t even answer a bloody text let alone a call or the door when you dropped by to further discuss the predicaments that are beyond your control.”
Their silence is emphasized by the increasingly aggressive nature of my throwing, something I try to taper down by switching to my non-dominant hand once more.
I went over there that night.
I went straight over there after Hot Rocket swore to me, we’d meet in her office to discuss the incident post the media frenzy that redirected her focus from ass chewing me to damage controlling what was just broadcast to our fanbase.
I knocked.
I banged.
I shouted – which Bear did not enjoy.
I did everything I could to get her to come out, to talk to me, to get back on the same team regarding whatever was going to ensue next, yet nothing.
Pure silence.
I even waited in my car, napping, until I had to go get packed for the road.
I’ve called only to be sent straight to voicemail.
Texted and gotten nothing in return.
At this point, I’m honestly not even sure she doesn’t have my number blocked.
That would be one way to end things without having to end things.
Finally, Father speaks, “Do you recall your first truly competitive hockey team?”
“Of course.” Catching the neon green object is mindless. “The Bridgetown Bobcats. Helluva season. First time a scout ever noticed me on the ice.”
“And do you recall that you were benched for almost half the season when they found out about your family situation?”
How the fuck could I ever forget?
We were out having pizza.
Some quaint place Dad had heard about at work while doing what he still does for a living – installing emergency sprinkler systems.
Coach Long had stumbled in with a few of his beer league buddies who were also other youth hockey coaches. He took one look at them, their joined hands, and the good time they were having, and made his disgust known.
It was the only thing on his face.
Pure.
Unfiltered.
Disgust.
The other coaches didn’t notice – or didn’t care – but he did.
And he made his repulsion known by turning me into a duster.
Going out of his way to keep the puck away from me.
Me away from my mates.
Finding any and every excuse he could to keep me excluded from pracky or team building activities.
For months, I rode that bench like the bloody Mongolian cavalry during the conquering of Eurasia.
Always with a smile.
Always with a stick tap for everyone else in spite of the fact I was dying inside.
Swallowing the small mass in my throat precedes a meek, “Yes.”
“You recall not asking to switch teams or sports?” Father proudly points out. “You recall deciding to work harder than you had ever worked in your entire life, every opportunity you had? Cardio. Strength training. Stand in games of bloody ball hockey simply to keep your skills sharp and speed swift for the moment you finally had an opportunity to prove your worth.”
A bashful beam can’t be stopped. “Yes.”
“The situation with Arden is exactly the same.”
“He’s right,” Becks abruptly chirps in.
“Ohhhhhh, is that Becks?!” Father excitedly inquires. “Is he finally back?”
“Back from where?” I cluelessly question as he flops down onto the apartment floor beside me.
“I had an interview thanks to Trent,” he informs prior to looking around me into the propped-up phone. “And pretty sure I got it.”