This morning, I woke up with an idea. These days, I awake, look at the clock, and then turn over and go back to sleep until the alarm goes off, but not this morning. This morning, I woke up, looked at the clock (4:05 AM), and headed to my journal and computer. I had a story idea. Sorry about the swearing (I left out the words on this blog post, but they will go into the manuscript).
Here’s an excerpt (I don’t want to bore you with too much, but here’s a little:):
Tonight, the excitement can’t be tamed, and the solitude that I treasure in the locker room an hour after a big game won’t come. I turn off the shower, grab my towel, and head to my locker near the door. Three of the seniors walk by and congratulate me on the game. It’s beginning to quiet down. The last few lockers slam shut as Bradley comes around the corner of the far row.
I scan the bench while attaching my sticks to the outside of my bag. After zipping up the bag, I lift the corner end to find the game puck still sitting there. I grab it as Bradley sits down.
“Great game tonight, Griff.” He says while extending his fist.
“Thanks. You too. You played awesome.” I give it a bump.
“That shot at the end was a classic. A top ten highlight.”
“I would never had gotten off that shot if it wasn’t for your pass. In fact, I want you to have the game puck.” I toss it to him as he stands up and he catches it in the shoulder.
“No way, Griff, the team gave it to you.” And he holds it up.
“They gave it to me for the winning goal. I wouldn’t have gotten it if it wasn’t for that pass.”
“Dude, I can’t take it. There’s no way I could have hit that slap shot like you did. I’ll never be able to put that much velocity on it.” He starts to walk away.
“Again, I’d never gotten the chance if it wasn’t for the perfect pass.” And I drop it into the pocket on the side of his bag.
“Thanks, man!” He stops, reaches out his hand, shakes mine and says, “Now, let’s win a state championship.”
We step out into the bitter cold of the night. Steam rises off the tops of her heads. The once wet sidewalk is now iced over and slick. Bradley’s dad is waiting in the still running parked car at the end of the sidewalk. The trunk pops open. When we approach, his dad jumps out of the car.
“Hey, Dad. Great win tonight!” Bradley is still excited. He throws his gear into the trunk.
“What are you talking to that jerk (I don’t intend to use “jerk” in the final manuscript) for? He stole “your” winning goal.” He’s not even looking at me when he says it.
“He didn’t steal it. There’s no way I could’ve made that shot.”
“What is wrong with you? Get in the car.” He grabs Bradley by the left shoulder and swings him into the car. He kicks him in the right leg as he slams the door shut and yells, “You don’t need that jerk. When are you going to turn into a man and take control out there on the ice?”
He comes around the front of the car glaring at me, “What are you looking at? Trying to show up your dead brother.”
I bite my tongue as hard as I can, but the tears and anger is boiling inside of me. “Go to he*& (again, that’s not what’s going in the manuscript), Mr. Reynolds.”
I turn and wave at my dad, who’s just pulled into the parking lot, and start walking towards his car. My heart is beating so fact that I’m dizzy and the tears that I’m willing not to come are blurring my vision.