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Book: Saved by Jack Falla Read Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Falla
car.”
    â€œThanks, Lindsey. How you doing?”
    â€œFine. I hope you and Daddy win tonight.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œAnd I hope you don’t let in any of those really long shots. Like remember against Montreal?” she said.
    â€œMe, too,” I said.
    â€œYou remember that really, really, REALLY long one?”
    â€œHard to forget.”
    â€œThe one that just rolled along the ice?”
    â€œJust rolled along,” I said.
    â€œI think I would have stopped that one,” Lindsey said, bending over and sweeping aside an imaginary puck with her imaginary stick.
    â€œProbably would have,” I said.
    â€œMaybe even Caitlin would have stopped it.”
    â€œCaitlin’s only five,” I said.
    â€œBut she’s almost six and she’s in Learn-to-Skate.”
    â€œWhere is Caitlin?” I asked but Lindsey ignored the question.
    â€œHow did that puck ever get into the net?”
    â€œBad bounce,” I said.
    â€œI hope you won’t let it happen again.”
    I said I’d try not to.
    â€œHey, Linds, Mom wants to see you,” Cam said, bounding down the front stairs. “Bonjour, Jean Pierre. Comment ça va, eh?” That’s Cam’s way of needling me about my being the only French-Canadian player he knows who can’t speak French. I spoke French as a child but I lost the language when Mom and I moved to Maine. Lewiston is a partly Francophone city but I went to schools where they spoke English.
    â€œSo how’s it going with Julie the Account Exec?” Cam asked as he got in the car.
    â€œYou’re one behind. It’s Sheri the Equestrienne. She teaches at a riding academy in Weston.”
    â€œA horsewoman? How’d you meet her?”
    â€œThe Ferrari,” I said. “Sheri saw me hand the keys to the valet at Sonsie. It was love at first sight.” Sonsie is a swank Newbury Street bar and restaurant where people go to be seen or just to say they’ve been there.
    â€œSo we’re into boots and riding crops, are we?” Cam said.
    â€œShe takes off the spurs. Too tough on the sheets.”
    â€œShe go to the whip much?”
    â€œOnly in the stretch,” I said. “She sure likes to be on top.”
    â€œYou OK with that?”
    â€œCam, Sheri the Equestrienne could ride a guy to a win in the Breeders’ Cup,” I said, nosing Boss Scags through the rain-slicked streets toward the Garden’s underground garage.
    I could afford to be loose. Reginald “Rinky” Higgins, our backup goalie, was starting against the Islanders. Packy was saving me for our final two exhibition games. In the greatest preseason scheduling I’d seen in nine seasons, we were playing a Thursday-night game against the New York Rangers at their training camp at the University of Vermont in Burlington, and then two nights later we’d play Montreal in Quebec City, one of the greatest restaurant towns in North America. The best part was the itinerary. We’d fly to Burlington on Wednesday—the day before the game—so we’d get a free night on the town. After Thursday’s game we’d bus to Quebec, where we’d stay at the Château Frontenac, a castle on the north bank of the St. Lawrence River. We’d have Friday night to enjoy Quebec before we played the Canadiens on Saturday.
    That schedule had to be Packy’s doing. The Mad Hatter usually arranges our itinerary so we play more back-to-back road games than any other team in the league. On a back-to-backer we charter out right after the first road game, check into our hotel at some ungodly hour of the morning, play the second game that night, and charter home after the game. It saves a few bucks on hotels and cuts down on the chance of a player hitting for the cycle—getting drunk, drugged, laid, and arrested. But it beats the hell out of you over the course of an eighty-two-game season. It also makes us feel

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