Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
It was a mediocre season.
And that’s okay. Everyone has them. I have no complaints.
But this is the last game for the Seattle Blizzard this year.
“James!” Coach flags me down, and I walk over to him.
“One more period,” he says, echoing Mac’s words. “Tie us up, at least.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You are the best,” he reminds me and slaps me on the back. “Let’s do this!”
I was the best.
For fifteen years, I’ve been known as the phenom. The best of the best. The GOAT. Better than Gretzky, having smashed his record for scoring in one season, and total scores in a career, and I’ve played for five years less than that legend.
He’s also a friend and mentor of mine.
But am I still the best? Fuck no.
I’m thirty-five.
I’ve been beating my body up my whole goddamn life.
I’m tired.
But for the next twenty minutes on the ice, I’ll fake it till I make it. No cringing when my knees feel like they’re exploding. There is no pain. There is no messing up.
But shit, it’s so much harder now than it was ten years ago. Even five years ago.
I do manage to score twice, much to the delight of the fans and my teammates, but so does the opposing team, and when it’s all said and done, we lose, 4–2.
“James!” Dozens of reporters shout my name as I make my way to the locker room, and I stop to give interviews.
“What happened out there, Cap?”
Some of them call me Cap because I’ve been the captain of the team for ten years. I was recruited by Seattle my rookie year, and I’ve been lucky enough to stay here my whole career.
Aside from Montana, Seattle is my home.
“Hey, Mike.” I swipe my forearm over my sweaty forehead and tip my head down so I can hear the shorter man ask me questions for the camera. The hallway leading to the locker room is loud as hell.
“What happened out there, Cap? Do you think there was anything you could have done to change how this one ended?”
I want to roll my eyes, but I simply shake my head. “You know, our guys really showed up tonight. Spencer had some amazing saves in the goalie box. I don’t think we have anything to be ashamed of, and a great foundation for next year.”
“So you think you’ll still be in Seattle next year, with you being a free agent after this game?” Mike asks, his eyes shrewd.
Fuck you, Mike.
“Only God and my agent know that for sure.” I smile at the camera, wink for Willow the way I always have, and turn to leave.
No more interviews tonight.
The locker room is somber, but not as sad as it gets if we lose during the Cup. That sucks ass. Tonight, we’re disappointed, even though we saw it coming.
But I’m the captain, so it’s my job to say a few words to lift their spirits.
“Listen up,” I begin, getting everyone’s attention. “I’m proud of every single one of you. You all worked hard this season. We knew that there would be a learning curve this year, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You played your asses off out there tonight.”
“Not hard enough,” Mac mutters, and I reach out to pat him on the shoulder.
“You spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice,” I remind him with a grin. “No pouting tonight. We made it into the second round of the playoffs, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Now, we rest for a bit before we get back at it.”
For me, that downtime will take place in Montana, with my dad and the animals, breathing in fresh air and listening to nothing but quiet. I need that.
But first, we’re going on a trip as a team. The reservations, the plane, everything has been on standby to whisk us away whenever we’re finished with the season. Whether that was tonight or after the Stanley Cup, we’re going somewhere as a team.
Somewhere fucking warm.
With sand, sun, and hopefully plenty of scantily clad women. I haven’t gotten laid in far too fucking long.
“But first, Bora-Bora!” Spencer calls out, and I grin at him.
“Damn right. We leave first thing, so don’t get so drunk tonight that you pass out and miss the flight. We won’t wait for your stupid ass.”
Against a backdrop of snickers and smiles, I walk over to my locker and start to strip down to hit the shower. Now that the adrenaline from the game is over, my knees ache. My back is stiff.
I feel eighty.
As I joke with the guys—always keeping my hockey-star mask on—I get showered and then pull on my suit and tie.
The guys give me shit for always dressing up for game day, but it’s habit. It’s my image. Ray—or Dad, as I’ve called him since I was sixteen—always says that you need to show the world who you are.