Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Even as he says this, his words are like a defining moment for me.
One more game.
Like, that’s all that’s left of my hockey career. Shit, I need to shake those kinds of thoughts free. If we win this game, we get two weeks to recoup and get fired up for the championship.
Like Coach says—just one more game.
The hotel supplies us with lunch, and then Asher and I hang out in our room. I’d go and find Seth, but we’re supposed to be resting up for tonight, plus, I think he and Zach said they were going to drive to Boston for the day anyway knowing I was busy with the team.
I flop down on my bed and scroll through random shit on my phone while Asher tries to nap.
After a few minutes, he squirms and lets out a low moan. “What the hell was in that tuna salad?”
“I dunno. It looked sketchy, so I had the chicken.”
Asher holds on to his stomach. “I think … Oh no.” He gets up and rushes to the bathroom, and I can hear the distinct sound of puking.
Great.
Fucking great.
Beck’s injured, and Asher’s sick. Could this day get any worse?
And why did my brain just think that? Because of course it fucking can. My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but it has a Montreal area code, and for whatever reason, my brain thinks Foster must’ve gotten a Canadian phone number.
“Hello?”
It’s not Foster. It’s a woman’s voice that fills my ear. “Hi, is this Richard Cohen?”
“Uh, yes?”
“Hi, it’s Amy from the Montreal Monarchs. We received your application for the PR assistant position. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
The sound of Asher vomiting makes me miss most of what she says.
“Umm, yeah. Sorry, can you hold on a second?”
“No problem,” she says brightly.
I get off the bed and go outside the hotel room into the hallway because I’m confused as fuck. I didn’t apply for that job.
“Okay, sorry, I’m here. Uh, you said you received my application?”
“Yes, one of our players, Foster Grant, recommended you and gave me your resume.”
Foster put my name forward?
“I’ll tell you a little about the position …” She rambles something about it being a paid internship where I’d learn all aspects of the PR department, from social media to press conferences, I’d travel with the team, and basically, it sounds like I’d be Amy’s bitch boy. Apparently there’s a process for gaining sponsorship before applying for a work visa, but she says she’ll send me all the information I need.
If I’m honest, it sounds like a typical entry-level position that would be shitty for a while but could lead to something amazing. It’s exactly the kind of job I’ve been hoping would come along.
But I told Seth I wouldn’t go for it. I promised him I wouldn’t use his brother’s connections—that was the only rule he really gave me when he worked out who I was.
“We’re holding interviews next month. Would you be able to attend?” she asks.
“Thank you for considering me, but—”
The door to the room opens, and Asher looks pale. “Can you …” He winces. “Get Coach for me?” He dry retches and runs back inside.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Sorry,” I say into the phone. “I’m kind of dealing with a situation.”
“No problem at all. I’ll email you through all the details and an interview time, and I look forward to meeting you.” She ends the call before I get the chance to tell her I’m not interested.
What just happened?
I don’t have the luxury of being able to overthink it right now. Instead, I’m on a mission to find Coach for Asher. I get to his door, and Martin is already there.
“Henrikson is puking his guts up.”
“So is Asher.”
“Shit,” Coach Hogan mutters.
“Asher thinks it was the tuna salad.”
Coach goes into warpath mode. “Go knock on everyone’s doors and find out what they had for lunch. Then get Jacobs to my room. We’re gonna have to rearrange the fucking lines before tonight.”
We’re so screwed.
The rest of the afternoon is spent trying to find the guys and figure out who’s going to be puking instead of playing. Luckily, only three players are hit, so we’re not completely screwed, but Asher, Henrikson, and Simms are out. Beck’s injured. So we’re going into this game with two key players and our backup first line center unable to play.
“Looks like it’s up to us,” Jacobs says as we strip down in the locker room to get ready for the game.
“No pressure.” I throw my shirt into the cubby when my phone vibrates on the shelf in front of me.
I pick it up, and there’s the email from Amy in Montreal with the details of my upcoming interview. I still don’t understand why Foster gave her my resume or where he even got it.