by Anne Leigh
Copyright © 2018 Anne Leigh
This is an e-book property of Anne Leigh. All rights reserved, unless permitted by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. This cannot be reproduced, stored, transmitted, or copied in any way, shape, or form, without the permission of the author.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, pigments, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author is NOT affiliated with real life sports organizations, government organizations and entities.
The author respectfully acknowledges all registered trademarks and owners of trademarked products that may have been included in this work of fiction.
Cover: Mae I Design
Formatting: Allusion Graphics, LLC
Editing: KMS Freelance Editing
To my J, for the times when I doubt myself and you say, “You will write another book.”
To my daughter, for making me see the biggest meanings in the smallest things and to you,
My dear readers, I tweaked ALL the rules in sports and it was so much fun!
Prologue
First Half
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Second Half
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Golden Point
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books by Anne Leigh
Bishop
At six years of age
“Faster!”
“Dammit.”
“Faster boy!”
I urged my legs to move faster while I skated in a straight line, making sure my knees were bent, head up, legs separated by a shoulder-width apart. A week ago, I made the mistake of bending forward too much and I lost my balance one too many times, almost falling.
Falling.
Falling on the ice was worse than failing.
“Can’t you see the lines? Keep them straight. Bishop, when are you gonna learn?” His voice was louder than the blue jays that hovered in the trees. I’d much rather hear their calls than Dad’s yelling.
I whispered, “I’m trying.”
But I knew that the winds were the only ones that could hear my pleas.
Trying wasn’t enough for my father. Trying was for losers.
Losers like my friends, Will and Leo, who spent a lot of time skating for fun with their parents. Skating for fun was a waste of time in Dad’s book.
I rounded the corner and skated to the goal line, and for a second, caught my dad’s figure in my periphery.
In a dark red winter coat and thermal pants, my father loomed as a dark shadow against the winter white snow that covered our backyard ice rink. He’d had it built when I was six months old, and he often bragged to his friends that before I could walk on our marbled floors, I’d had my bare feet walking smartly on the ice.
I’d been on the ice for an hour, but it felt like a day. Anything over thirty minutes started to become a long time to be on the ice for me.
I loved the ice. I loved the pureness it represented. The white flecks that dropped from the sky symbolized God’s gift to mankind. According to Miss Preecher, the kind lady who came every day to tutor me, God’s gifts were everywhere; in the bread I ate, in the toys I played with, in the clouds up in the sky.
I’d asked her if God bestowed His gifts to everyone and she’d said yes.
I believed her until I started thinking that maybe she was lying.
Because if God was good and He gave nice gifts to everyone, then why didn’t He give me and my sister Bridge nicer parents?
Mom hardly spent any time with my sister. She used to bring her everywhere, but then Bridge had turned two and it seemed like my mom wanted to be anywhere except where my sister was. The new nanny, Nanny Tilda, spent all her time with Bridge now, but Bridge still didn’t want to talk.
Leo’s sister was the same age as Bridge and his sister, Cherry, babbled a lot.
Something was wrong with Bridge, and I told Mom, but Mom just ignored me. She was too busy doing something on the computer and so, I kept my thoughts to myself.
But every time Bridge’s eyes landed on me when we were playing, I just had a feeling that she wanted to tell me something but she couldn’t.
“Trust me, he’ll be better than Gretzky and Crosby combined.” Dad was now talking on this cellphone. It was probably his hockey friend, Paul, who sometimes watched me practice. Paul often gave me a high five, and pointed out things I should work on.
I used to like Paul coming to see me practice.
But now, I hated it.
Because every time Paul pointed out my mistakes, my father wouldn’t let me rest until I perfected them.
One time, I went to bed, my legs feeling so bruised and my foot bleeding because I’d been on the ice for three hours straight after Paul had left.
I could’ve told my dad that I felt horrible, but I’d learned that he wasn’t sympathetic at all.
He’d tell me to wrap my foot in a bandage and man up.
Bridge helped me get up on my bed. Her tiny figure almost falling off balance because I leaned on her for support, since my legs had become too weak to carry me a few inches off the floor.
“He’s moving with accuracy, but he needs to build up power to move more efficiently. That’ll be our task for tomorrow. You want to come over and help us out?” I was right. Paul was on the phone.
I didn’t know what kids my age did, but I didn’t think it was soaking their bodies in ice baths after grueling hockey practices.
I didn’t think that kids my age knew how to cover up bruised bones as well as I did.
My father said that injury made the muscle remember.
How many injuries did I have to experience to make him remember that I was still a child?
Sure, I could run circles around kids twice my age when it came to skating and shooting pucks, but I doubted that their bodies hurt the way mine had.
Dad turned his back towards me, and I took the opportunity to look at my surroundings.
I still skated in perfect lines because I knew he’d scrutinize them later.
I still skated in the same tempo and rhythm because I knew that he could hear the speed that I was going.
But this time, I allowed my neck to look up and I took refuge at the puffy clouds against the shadowy Canadian skies.
I’d tell Bridge about them later since she loved to draw the clouds.
I turned my head to the side and smiled at the sight of the bluish-gray tint of the Juniper trees that lined our driveway. I eyed the Hybrid Poplar that had sprung up another three feet from the last time I really checked them out. Their leaves still had the reminder of fall – their bright yellow foliage now slightly covered in white specks.
> “Bishop! You’re drifting!” My father called out.
I doubted I was drifting.
He was just saying it so that I would know he was really paying attention when he was probably making deals with his former agent on when he and I could have another TV station feature us again.
My father was the most attentive, doting dad when the cameras were on him.
I looked down and checked the lines I’d created from hours of skating.
Nope, they were all perfect.
Lines and circles that formed perfect figure 8’s.
Shapes that showed how perfect I was – the son of Beau Cordello, hero of the Canadian Winter sports and hockey legend.
Figures that mirrored the hours I played and practiced in the ice so I could be as great, if not greater than, the Hockey Hall of Famer.
But to me, those lines didn’t show the countless times I’d fallen but never helped back up.
Those silhouettes cut the picture of how imperfect my life was.
And that’s what they were. Just plain shadows of the reality of the pain and suffering that Bridge and I were subjected to.
Miss Preecher’s face was filled with enthusiasm when she talked about God’s gifts.
And I’d nodded my head, but my heart rebelled.
Because the truth was – she lied.
She’d said that God gave the gift of kindness to everyone.
No, God did not.
God forgot.
Attraction is unexplained physics.
The magnetic force that pulls people toward each other cannot be quantified.
Therein lies the mystery.
Bishop
Present Day
Professor Milliken was rambling.
At least that’s what I thought. After hours of practice and cramming for two papers, I knew I needed rest. My mind could go on for another three days, but my body was a different story.
I was tired.
There was no other way around it.
My legs were aching from the drills that Coach Masterson had subjected us to. I’d done them hundreds of times and footwork and agility drills were peanuts, but yesterday I just felt off. Something was missing. I couldn’t pinpoint it and it bothered the hell outta me.
After practice, I’d gone back to my frat house and Rikko, Tau’s Chapter President and all-around good guy, commented, “Brotha, you look like shit and the season hasn’t even started.”
He should know because he was a football player, so I gave him a middle finger salute, but I also agreed with him then proceeded to plant my ass in bed and slept for two hours before I started my all-nighter writing session for the cost design and profitability of high-powered solar equipment in agriculture.
I felt a hand nudge me, “Do you think he’s that cruel?”
Turning around, I came face-to-face with the cute redhead who sat to my left. She was smiling while she whispered, and I wasn’t going to be rude so I shrugged a shoulder, motioning for her to go on.
“It’s only the second meeting, and my friend said that last term he gave them a pop quiz that accounted for five percent of the class.” Her green eyes darted to the front of the class where the professor was writing equations.
“Nah, I don’t think so,” I said with a quiet voice.
Maybe after class I could ask for her number. She’d been giving me the flirty eye and it wouldn’t hurt to become friendly with another classmate.
Some of my friends were in my business classes, but I really didn’t know anyone in this class and it never hurt to have a buddy, especially when I had away games.
Suddenly, Professor Milliken looked up and shit, was he shaking his head at us?
His class was one of the hardest classes to pass.
I had a frat brother who barely got the internship that he had been dreaming of since he was twelve because of his grade in Milliken’s class.
I didn’t need to rock the professor’s ornery goatee this early in the semester.
Professor Milliken walked to the podium, looked down on his paper, and in an auditorium filled with forty or so upperclassmen and said, “Mr. Cordello, would you like to enlighten us on what the Bohr diagram is all about?”
I swallowed dry air and glanced up, checking the symbols that he’d written on the white board.
I had no problems with explaining Bohr’s model, but I did have an issue with him singling me out. After all, I was minding my own business and was even close to falling asleep when the redhead disturbed my solitude.
“Bohr basically emphasizes that the orbits where the electrons travel can have their radii increase where n is the principal quantum number,” I supplied, hoping that my explanation would be enough to get me off the hook.
It was simplistic and minimal, but I’d rather not be forced to really think right now. Especially when I just wanted to be quiet.
Professor Milliken gave a slight shake of his head.
Thank fuck.
“Do you agree with this model?” Professor Milliken wasn’t done with me since he was still asking for more.
I take back the thanks, and retain the fuck. Times two.
Bohr’s model was good. It was the basis of quantum theory. I toyed with it in high school, and tried to see it from different angles. It wasn’t perfect, it had a lot of shortcomings. I meant no disrespect to the Dane but –
“Professor, may I?” The sound came from the back of the class.
It was husky and sexy all at once.
The kind of voice that I wouldn’t expect in a quantum mechanics class.
I wasn’t being sexist or any of that shit. And the redhead beside me was cute. And so were the other women in the class, but whoever that voice belonged to was on another level.
Professor Milliken turned his head towards the voice and nodded his head.
“I like Niels Bohr…” The voice started as the rest of class laughed. “But there’s a lot that he couldn’t answer with his model. Granted, he improved on them with subsequent studies, but this isn’t a Philosophy class so I won’t bore you with my argument.”
Professor Milliken’s face cracked; clearly, he was amused.
I was tempted to turn around, but I wanted to wait on what she had to say because clearly, she had the floor and the attention of everyone in class.
“It’s not up to me to like his model or not since his research has been the foundation of nearly everything quantum-related. But his model didn’t address the spectra of larger atoms. It can’t explain what happens when more complicated quantum principles interact with electron spin and orbital magnetic fields, which saddens me to a point because I spent a lot of my time trying to justify it in high school.” Her voice was now throaty, but the way she made her point was refreshing, and flawless, and goddamned if it didn’t make my balls tighten up.
“The doublets and triplets, that’s another thing,” she continued, “Bohr couldn’t say why their energy levels are so close together.”
“And the Zeeman effect where changes in spectral lines are because of external magnetic fields.” Added a guy in the front.
She had started this.
On the second class meeting, the whole room reverberated in opinions and energy.
Another girl in the front said, “How about the rotating charge? I want to base my thesis on it to prove his point, but I know I’ll be at a loss.”
From what I could tell, Professor Milliken was around his seventies. He was your typical college physics professor. He expected everyone to take notes as he wrote on the board and went through his endless power point presentations. Physics was a sedate class, everyone calculated, took the exams, and basically earned the grades.
But as he looked up from his black-rimmed glasses, I could tell he was fighting a smile. I mean, I couldn’t really decipher it because he had a big-ass weird goatee, but I knew that this wasn’t the type of class he expected today when he stood in front of us at 2:15 in the afternoon.
Slowly, I turned m
y head.
I was trying to be discreet about it.
But I really wanted to see where the voice came from.
And who she was – the woman who made quantum mechanics buzz.
She wasn’t there on the first day of class because I would know.
It was strange but I had a feeling that hers was a presence that demanded attention and if she was there last week, everyone would know about her.
Move, dude, move.
I was silently commanding the guy who was barring me from seeing her.
As if he heard my command, he slowly moved to the side, whispering to another guy beside him. The classroom wasn’t as big as the other classrooms on campus, so we had to sit closer to each other.
She was leaning over, talking to the brunette beside her, as the class was wrapping up.
All I could see were long locks of hair infused with what looked like a mix between platinum and golden blonde.
From my view, I could see that she was tall and the watch on her wrist screamed expensive.
Then as if on cue, she slowly turned towards my direction.
My sister, Bridgette, who loved to paint, often indulged me with lessons about the different colors and pigments. I listened because she was my younger sister and I was being a good brother.
A few years ago, while she was telling me about mixing colors, I found myself completely fascinated with one.
Bridge also knew the origins of each color and the one I had embedded in my memory bank. She’d used the color to paint Canada’s deep bright skies.
Derived from the latin ‘caerleus’, meaning dark blue and caelum.
This woman, the one who gave me a boner talking about an ancient physicist, I knew how to describe the color of her smiling eyes that were staring back at me.
They were a glorious blue.
Cerulean blue.
Kara
I never went to class unprepared.
Scratch that.
I never went to anything unprepared.
My mother had engrained in me, “When you’re late, you’re disrespecting yourself. When you don’t prepare, you disrespect yourself. Respect isn’t a seven-letter word; it’s an action that speaks volumes about you.”
