Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Not only was I single, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been on a real date. And kids definitely weren’t on my radar. But Gino was a nice guy, his kids were cute, the sun was shining, and I was in a great mood for no reason in particular.
He told me about the new pizza his kids wanted to debut on the menu this summer. Something with piles of pepperoni and Ritz crackers. I snickered at his horrified expression.
“Disgusting, am I right?” He shook his head in mock despair.
“Very. But I think Nathan would be all over that.” True statement. My little brother liked anything on pizza…as long as it wasn’t green.
Gino narrowed his eyes. “Why do I think Nathan gave Tommy that bright idea?”
I chuckled, raising my hands in surrender as I stepped aside. “Take that up with Smitty and my dad. Later. I’m gonna grab something to eat at the diner and—”
“Yeah, I saw your big-shot manager roll into town in a sweet convertible. Put in a good word for my nephew, Emmett. He’ll be a senior in the fall and…you know Emmett. He’s got a killer snap shot. It might not get him into the NHL, but if he had the right agent, anything could happen.”
Oh…right. I’d almost forgotten that some folks thought I had secret special insider info to fast-track anyone with a smidge of talent into the pros.
I didn’t, but I gave a thumbs-up, and froze.
“Wait. My agent?”
Gino brushed his meaty palms on his shorts and stood, inclining his chin in the general direction of the diner. “I think that was him. Mr. Slick, hair combed back, fancy suit, shiny shoes…”
“Sounds like McD. See ya, Gino.”
I checked my messages as I continued up Main Street. My social media feed had been filled with crap about my shiny leather jacket sabotage for days. Fucking Trinsky. Most of it was good-natured ribbing, but there were always a few superfans looking for a scapegoat, so the “Milligan sucks” campaign hadn’t really surprised me.
But I’d wondered what had possessed Trinsky to throw my name out during a podcast fluff piece. Sure, we kind of famously didn’t get along, but blaming his lack of concentration at a pivotal game seven on a spectator—you know, the guy snacking on popcorn next to his kid brother and sisters—was a stretch.
What a fucknut.
My agent, McD, had forwarded the headlines with a question mark. I’d responded with an eye-roll emoji. No reply necessary in my opinion. It was immature baiting by an overgrown child publicly pouting ’cause he’d lost. End of story.
Or so I’d thought.
The next day, McD had followed up with a few ideas on how we could use the attention in the media to our advantage. I wasn’t interested. Trinsky was an idiot, and I had no intention of purposely hitching my wagon to his. Was that the right expression?
Not important. I actively avoided Trinsky whenever possible, and I saw no reason to change my policy now.
McD had agreed…which meant he probably wasn’t in Elmwood to see me. He might have business with Denny or maybe Vinnie or—nope…still weird. I made that guy a lot of money. Out of common courtesy alone, McD always let me know if he was coming by even if he was here for someone else.
I pushed the glimmer of irritation aside, determined not to let bullshit I couldn’t control ruin my day. Not today, Satan.
Elmwood was decked to the nines in preparation for tomorrow’s parade for Denny. A Welcome Home banner hung across Main Street, a huge poster of him was plastered on the side of the rink and on the brick façade of the high school, his jersey and number were painted on storefronts, and most of the businesses in town would rename their specials after Denny or offer discounts in his honor.
Pretty cool. My season hadn’t been anywhere near as thrilling as Denny’s, but Elmwood had gone all out for me last month too. The banner, the parade…JC and Nolan had even renamed the diner Jake’s Joint for the day.
I felt undeserving, but no one here agreed. Elmwood was a hockey town that celebrated our famous and semi-famous athletes with hometown-style gratitude. And I had to admit that while the parade and the royalty-for-a-few-days perks were a sweet tradition, the incredible show of support went a long way to healing the sting of loss.
Denny would appreciate this too. Even if it was a bit over-the-top, I mused, snickering at the advert for Denny’s donut holes in the bakery window. Geez, I bet he’d always hoped to have a donut hole named after him.
I waved to Mrs. Turnbull, my third grade teacher. I slapped high fives with a couple of teenagers who played for Smitty on Elmwood High’s hockey team, then crossed the street to the diner and held the door open for my little sister’s best friend, Maggie, and her mom.