Buku Spark by Devon Monk

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Spark by Devon Monk

Author:Devon Monk

Language: eng

Format: epub

ISBN: 9781939853134

Publisher: Odd House Press

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Spark by Devon Monk

Fourteen

Back-to-back games meant no one was going to push it very hard in practice today.

I kept my mind on my own game, and no one paid attention to me.

 

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Spark by Devon Monk

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Spark by Devon Monk

 

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Spark by Devon Monk

Author:Devon Monk , Date: June 11, 2019

,Views: 35

Author:Devon Monk

Language: eng

Format: epub

ISBN: 9781939853134

Publisher: Odd House Press
Fourteen

Back-to-back games meant no one was going to push it very hard in practice today.

I kept my mind on my own game, and no one paid attention to me.

Except Slade, who broke free from his drill and did the strangest thing. He passed me the puck. I was so surprised, I almost missed it.

“Lame,” he chirped. “You suck, Sparkle.”

His smile was a challenge. He bared his teeth at anyone who came near us, anyone who even looked like they wanted to come at him for talking to me, playing with me. It was a clear message that he’d be more than happy to take down all comers.

It was…weirdly humbling. I had never had a problem making friends. I wasn’t the popular guy, but I was fun and funny, easy to hang out with. In school, I’d made my way into every group and club I was interested in, and had kept most of the friends I’d made in those places.

But to have this one guy choose to stand beside me, stand against the team with me, meant more than all those easy friendships.

I whistled and hucked the puck back at him. He caught it, smooth and easy, then took off down the ice. I dug it out after him, on the chase, hassling for possession of the puck.

He won the race—damn fox—took a shot at the backup goalie who caught it easy as waving a yawn down off his face.

“Gotta work harder, boys,” he said.

And then there was the next puck, the next pass, and the next drill, just Slade and me running plays. Coach Nowak ignored us. So did the assistant coach. But I caught players watching us, watching me.

So I showed them what I could do. All bullshit aside, I was a fine hockey player. Not the best, but I hadn’t been given my place in the league being lazy or slow.

I was good. Fast. I had power and good ice sense. My puck handling was solid, and I didn’t hog the play. I was too good to be scratched.

With a winger down, they needed me on the roster.

Not that coach would play me.

Their loss.

Literally.

I was marked as a healthy scratch again, and sat through another game, up in the nose-bleeds watching my team choke a two-point lead and go down for the count three under.

At least there were no fights this time.

At the end of the game, when the last buzzer went off and the overly silent crowd put a little gumption into booing both the Tide and the Rumblers, something happened.

Slade took off his helmet, red hair flame-bright. He turned to where I was watching in the stands, looked straight at me, and tapped his stick against the ice.

It was short, just a moment that could be misread as him applauding the audience, or being a good sport and cheering for the visiting team.

But that’s not what it was.

That was a teammate recognizing another teammate.

That was—

—pack—

—a second-marked recognizing a second-marked, that was—

—beta—

—something no one had ever done to me before.

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