Unfortunately, it necessitated a rewrite of the beginning. LOL. I laugh because this is my M.O. I start and restart and restart my books. Such is the life of a writer who plots as she goes. Here's the new opening...
The San Diego Barracudas reload with Locke, Stoccetti and Barringer, but will they be shooting blanks this season? Marc Stoccetti left the Oilers under a cloud, but Coach Marchand thinks the seasoned center still has some pow left in him. Personally, I’m not sure. All three of these guys are on the far side of their prime, but Lord knows the Barracudas are a young team in need of strong, experienced leadership.
--Breakaway Baby, a hockey blog
Marco Stocchetti was jogging on the treadmill with his two good friends in the Barracuda's workout room. Christian Barringer had asked the question.
“I was ten,” Marc said.
Simon Locke, captain of the team, laughed. “The fuck you were.”
Marc chuckled. “All right. I was sixteen.”
Barringer nodded. “Hey, I was sixteen, too. Marissa Clairmont.” He sighed. “What sweet fucking pussy she had. I swear to God it tasted like peach pie.”
“I lost my cherry to Alison Chase,” Marc said. “In the back of her car.”
“Oh yeah? What did she taste like?” Barringer asked.
Marc shrugged. “I never went down on her,” he admitted. “But her mouth always tasted like Big Red gum.”
Barringer nodded as he adjusted the speed on his machine. “There was an old lady on my street when I was a kid who gave out Big Red on Halloween. You’d knock on her door and she’d give you one stick. That pissed me off so bad. I used to think she was cheap, but now I realize she was probably just on a fixed income.” Barringer sighed. “Maybe I should look her up. See if she needs some money.”
Locke cleared his throat. “If you two are done with your stroll down memory lane, I’d like to get back to the matter at hand. You can’t have the number sixteen,” he said to Marc. “That’s Carpenter’s number.”