Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“Larsen! Get your head on straight!” Nick Lattimore barks as we skate by each other during a line change.
I’m fucking trying. I play on the first line with our co-captains, Case and Ryder, and our two best d-men. It’s a powerhouse of a lineup, and tonight we’re not gelling one bit.
For the entire period, we’re on our heels, Harvard sensing our lack of focus and capitalizing on it. They’re relentless, ambushing our net and peppering our goalie, Nelson, with shots. I hear Coach yelling from the bench, his frustration boiling over as we struggle to keep up.
“Move the puck!” he shouts as we try to break out of our zone.
Midway through the second period, I get the puck on a rush. Normally, this is where I thrive. Speed, instinct, pure adrenaline. But as I barrel down the ice, ready to make my move, the camera flashes in my peripheral vision, and I hesitate.
It’s just a split second, but it’s enough.
The defenseman reads my hesitation, stepping up to poke the puck off my stick, and before I know it, I’m colliding with the boards, the puck flying the other way.
“Motherfucker!” I snarl, slamming my stick against the ice as I hasten to get back into the play.
It’s too late. They have a two-on-one, and Nelson doesn’t stand a chance.
The red light flashes as the puck hits the back of the net, and the crowd groans its displeasure.
“Get your head in the game!” Coach bellows from the bench as I skate toward him. “That’s on you, Larsen! On you!”
I know it was, and it burns. I slam onto the bench, ripping off my helmet and running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. My chest is heaving, but not only from exertion. I’m livid. At the cameraman, at my dad, at myself.
The game continues, but I feel like I’m watching it through a fog. I hear the skates cutting into the ice, the shouts from my teammates, the echo of the puck as it rattles off the boards, but none of it registers. All I can think about is how much I wish my father were here so I could punch him in the fucking face in front of his fucking cameras.
Coach is losing it, pacing up and down the bench, barking orders. The team is out of sync, passes going wide, players colliding as we try to get something going. And all the while, the cameraman is there, capturing every painful second.
Another rush, another turnover. The puck is in our zone again, and we’re scrambling, trying to clear it. I see the puck bounce loose. Fucking yes. I’ve got a chance to get it out. I lunge for it—but before I can get my stick on it, the Harvard center swoops in and fires it past our goalie.
The horn blares, and the scoreboard shows we’re down by two, and the clock is ticking. The second period’s almost done.
I skate back to the bench, feeling the game slipping through my fingers. The cameraman has graduated from pesky mosquito to a swarm of bees, moving behind us to get his goddamn angles. He’s distracting everyone, including Beckett, who’s late for his shift because the camera guy is blocking the door when Jensen calls for a line change.
“That’s it!” Coach looks like he’s going to literally have an aneurysm. His face is beet red, his voice an incensed roar. “Get off my bench!”
The guy is wise enough to know when to cut his losses, disappearing into the tunnel. But the damage is done.
“Dunne!” Coach shouts at Beck. “If you screw up a line change again, I’m benching you for the rest of the game.”
Even though it wasn’t his fault, Beckett also knows better than to argue, but I can tell my boy is pissed. Jaw set in a tense line, gray eyes burning with anger.
Jensen switches up the lines again. Beckett and Shane, who are on the same line tonight, burst through the bench door. I can tell from Beck’s body language that he’s out for blood.
I wasn’t lying to Marjorie earlier when I said there’s no fighting in college hockey, but about twenty seconds after Beckett hits the ice, a fight breaks out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHARLOTTE
Downright feral
“I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY THEY KEEP JUMPING IN AND OUT LIKE that without anyone blowing a whistle,” I complain.
“Because they make line changes during the state of play,” Blake explains. Somehow, she’s shown nothing but patience in spite of the thousand and one questions I’ve barraged her with.
“That seems incredibly dangerous. And in the two or three seconds it takes for them to jump in, you’re, like, a man or two down!” I have to shout over the latest roar from the crowd.
“That’s what makes hockey so exciting,” she shouts back.
She’s not wrong. This is way more thrilling than I anticipated. I’ve never actually been to a hockey game. But I have been to football games, where after literally every play, they blow the whistle and then everyone stands around for forty-five minutes while they reset.