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)
“Overreact much?” I scrolled my iPad in dismay, amused and baffled, and…very aware that my silly shot might have instigated a war. Uh-oh. “It was a joke.”
“Do me a favor and give up the comedian gig. You suck at it.”
“Ouch.”
“I mean it. Go on vacation like your teammates and get out of the limelight for a few months, eh? While you’re at it, get your ex-girlfriend to quit posting shirtless pics of you in compromising poses.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Keep your trap shut, have a quiet summer, and let me work on your fuckin’ contract, got it?”
“Got it.”
I hung up with Marty and braved a peek at Chandra’s Instagram page.
Shit.
Sure enough, there were photos of us from last summer sprinkled in with newer selfies from after one of our games that I’d thought were harmless. We’d agreed to be friends, but friends didn’t lick each other’s tonsils and share it with the world.
Now, that might be awkward. No one wanted to have the breakup conversation twice. I wrinkled my nose and blew out an exasperated breath just as my cell vibrated.
“Denny. How’s it hangin’?”
“Low,” he answered. “Are you home?”
“Yeah, but I—”
“I’m here. Buzz me in.”
A few minutes later, Denny Mellon showed up at my door in full disguise—sunglasses, ball cap, dark tee, and jeans.
“Is that really you?” I squealed like a teenage fanboy. “Denny? Denny Mellon?”
He whipped his glasses off and rolled his eyes, pushing past me into the foyer. “Fuck off.”
“Yes, sir.” I snickered as I locked the door behind him.
Sometimes the celebrity angle of our job still boggled my mind. Neither of us traveled around town with an entourage, but we had to be mindful of the possibility of being stopped by fans for selfies and autographs. If time wasn’t an issue, it was fun to meet the folks who bought our jerseys and screamed at their TV screens on our behalf.
One could argue that it was worse for Denny than me. He was the highest scorer and one of the most popular players in the NHL. He was also the youngest out-and-proud bisexual man…who also happened to be married to a man. And his husband, Hank, was a fuckin’ cowboy from Colorado. So yeah, Denver loved this guy.
The entire league did. They were bonkers for Mellon and protective of him in a way that was unprecedented. Ten years ago, a bi or gay professional athlete would have had a tougher time in the public eye. Former players who’d come out—like Vinnie Kiminski, Riley Thoreau, Court Henderson, and Smitty Paluchek—had changed the game.
No, that didn’t mean the world was suddenly rainbow friendly everywhere. I knew for a fact that Denny still dealt with his share of prejudiced dickwads, but he had the support of our team, the organization, the city, and seemingly, most of the country.
As for me, if this were a popularity contest, I’d rank number two with Condor fans. I offset Denny’s serious nature with goofy antics, and I liked to think that my unwavering support for him was a positive influence. Call me ridiculous, showy, and full of myself, but you don’t fuckin’ mess with my friend.
It wasn’t an act. I loved Denny like a second brother. He was an extremely gifted and generous athlete. He worked hard, and he expected his teammates to do the same. However, if anyone was struggling with a shot or going through a slump, Denny was the first one to step up and offer to help. His ability to score at will paired with his trademark intensity and unwavering patience made him the perfect captain.
And a great friend.
My very good friend looked like he wanted to hurt me, though. If this was about Jake—
“Why is ‘Trinsky-Milligan Feud’ trending?”
Oh, come on.
“How should I—”
“Nope.” Denny held up a hand, grunting as he headed toward the great room. “Don’t answer. I know this one. You’re still pissed about losing, and you thought throwing your favorite scapegoat to the wolves would be fun.”
I raked my fingers through my hair and mulled over the accusation. “Okay, fine. That sounds about right. Lighten up, Mellon. It was a joke, and the fact that it has legs at all just means it’s a really slow news cycle. Give it another hour. I betcha a baseball player will get caught making out with a porn star, and my hashtag moment will fade in the wind. Want something to drink?”
He opened his mouth as if to respond and pointed at my living area. “Did you have a party or something? Your place is a mess.”
Afternoon sunlight pierced through the open blinds, ricocheting off the hardwood floors and marble countertops, illuminating the space with a hazy sheen. The beer bottles and empty glasses covering the smudged glass coffee table kind of ruined the peaceful effect the designer had been going for. So did the pillows strewn on the floor and the topsy-turvy sofa cushions that looked as if they’d been used to construct a fort.