Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 83927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Five minutes later, she stands and begins calling students to the front of the room, and one by one, they slip their hands into the hat and choose their team. The baseball team, the swim team, the football team, even the cheerleaders get a mention.
When I hear my name called out, I get up and shuffle past Sophie. She gives my ass a good luck spank as I pass her, and I cross my fingers, hoping to God I pick out a good team. After all, this is fifty percent of our grade.
Professor Whitaker holds the hat up high, and I reach up onto my tippy-toes and begin shuffling the leftover teams between my fingers. Then finally, I select one, feeling my stomach knotting with anticipation.
Pulling the small piece of paper out of the hat, I nervously glance up at Sophie and open it. My stare drops to find Professor Whitakers’ perfect, cursive handwriting, and my world burns to ashes at my feet.
Oh shit.
How do I break it to Sophie that we just got stuck with the worst team on campus?
Well, I suppose that’s not fair. They’re certainly not the worst. They’re extremely talented, but they waste it on alcohol and parties. Maybe that could be a good thing. I’m sure we could get a lot of great stories that we could exploit. I’m almost certain there are secret pregnancies and drugs surrounding all of them. I can’t say it would do any good for the promotion part of the project, but after last year’s epic fail during the championship game, they are easily the most hated sporting team on campus. Their plummet from stardom happened after their last game, and now, I guess it’s our job to return them to the previous gods they were once known as.
I look up at Sophie, who is watching me intently from the back of the room, before begrudgingly making my way back to her. “Well?” she prompts.
“We’ve got the Dragons. The ice hockey team.”
Chapter 2
Miller
“Come on. Quit skating like a bunch of pussies and show me what you’ve got,” Coach Harris yells from the barriers, his face turning a nasty shade of red. “You’ve had a few months off and you all come back looking like this. I may as well replace the lot of you with the Figure Fairies. Get. Your. Asses. Moving.”
I push myself harder. I’ve got to be my absolute best and show the team what a great captain I’ll be this season. After all, it’s the only way to win us the championship this year and get a one-way ticket into the NHL. But that isn’t going to happen without a shitload of hard work and dedication. Not just from me, but from the whole goddamn team.
My blades cut into the ice as I continue my sprints. Up. Down. Up. Down. Spraying an avalanche of ice shavings as I stop at each end before pushing myself even harder. The ice beneath my blades numbs my feet inside my skates, a welcome feeling I’ve long since gotten used to, and I use it as fuel to push myself harder. No achievement was ever made without self-sacrifice.
I glance down the line, noticing a few of the boys lacking, and I slot myself between them. “Come on, Bobby,” I encourage, giving the newbie junior a slap on the shoulder and smirking as he picks up his pace. Now that’s more like it.
We complete our sprints and move on to the next set, doing what I can to push these guys to their absolute limit. After last season’s shit show, they really could use the win. We haven’t won the championship for the past three years. Each season we’ve made it to the finals, only to let it slip right through our fingers. But that shit isn’t going to fly this year. Not on my watch. I’m going to bring it home for us. I’m going to show these new guys what hockey is all about and repair our reputation if it’s the last thing I do. Especially after last year’s fuck up.
It’s our first session back, and to say the guys look like shit would be an understatement. They’ve spent their time off partying and fucking around, probably with the same bunch of whores they recycle between them. Me? I’ve spent my break on the ice and in the gym. I know where I’m going and there’s no way in hell I’m letting it out of sight.
“Cain,” Coach bellows. I turn and make my way over to the man who’s become so much more than just a coach. He’s my mentor, friend, and an all-out ball-buster.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“Looking good out there,” he grunts, barely sparing me a glance, but I don’t expect anything more from a guy like Harris. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him show an ounce of emotion. “Get the goals out and run some drills.”