Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“Right.”
He dragged his teeth over his bottom lip and winced. “I switched focus last year from field reporting to human-interest stories. For some reason, people love hearing about our town’s history. Did you know that Bear Depot was originally called Ernie’s Cantina? Or that the basement at the donut shop was a speakeasy in the 1920s?”
“Uh…no.”
“All true. The college has been here for nearly two hundred years, and St. Mary’s church is almost as old. However, there wasn’t much commerce in Smithton in the early part of the twentieth century until the college received an endowment from a wealthy former student who’d made a pile of money in plastics and used it to invest in the town in the hopes that gentrification would influence prospective students. It worked. Population has been on the rise since the 1940s, but it’s occurred slowly and with purpose. We have one pizza parlor, and it’s amazing. We have one ice cream parlor, and folks have been known to make the trek from Syracuse for a cone. Our boutiques, cafés, and parks are truly unique. Add a college with a noteworthy athletic program, and What’s New, Smithton? writes itself. I’m just a reporter.”
“Like your mom.” I shrugged at his cocked brow. “I did a deep-dive Google search.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, it was…kind of intimidating,” I admitted with a wry laugh.
“I know.” He snorted, opening his arms to encompass the room. “My mom would have thought all this was cute. And my mom didn’t do cute.”
“Hmm. How come there’s nothing about your parents online? You don’t have to answer,” I added hastily. “I’m just curious as fuck about them. And you.”
Walker studied me, probably mentally weighing the risk of letting a relative stranger in on family lore. After a long moment, he spoke.
“The Woodrows had a lot of media influence, and they conveniently erased that chapter from history.”
“Why?”
“Because my parents’ marriage was a mistake, and the Woodrows don’t like mistakes,” he said evenly.
“Huh. Did your dad—”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t have a lot of Ketchum Clomsky lore to share,” Walker intercepted. “He’s in my life on the periphery…like a long-lost uncle. It’s been that way for years, and I highly suspect that I created what fond memories I have of him on days that I wished my family looked like a fairy tale with two loving parents and cool albeit slightly annoying siblings. I understand that you’re curious about your hockey hero, but I don’t know him. Here’s what I can tell you: My parents were divorced, I went to boarding schools, my mom was killed when I was thirteen, and the only family I saw during holidays and breaks was my Aunt Kay and her family. She’s my father’s older sister and the best person I know. Ketchum is…a stranger who comes around once in a while who my aunt is fond of. To me, he’s a sperm donor and just another hockey player.”
“Oh. That’s…”
“Sad, tragic, too bad?” he suggested. “Not really. It’s life. I have childhood memories of a big man who smelled like soap and pine needles, drove a red car with dark windows, and always showed up with stacks of coloring books, and oddly…a bicycle. I inherited a closet filled with his jerseys and signed memorabilia that I assume had been accidentally left at my mother’s New York City apartment, but…that’s it. We’re far removed from days of coloring books and bicycles, and I don’t know why that happened. Maybe he didn’t want to be a father. Or maybe he didn’t want me to be his son. It doesn’t matter. He’s not a significant person in my life because he chose not to be, and now…things are different.”
“Fuck, that’s…disappointing.” I blew a raspberry and sighed.
“I’m sorry.”
I scoffed. “What are you sorry about? Clomsky sucks.”
Walker gave a half laugh. “Yeah, he kind of does. I knew my mom better…obviously. However, she wasn’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type either. She wanted to save kids in war-torn nations, not deal with carpools and piano lessons for her own child. But at least she acknowledged my existence. Oh, well…things might have been different if I liked hockey.”
I scowled, grasping at any segue that might lighten the mood I’d killed with this topic. “You don’t like hockey?”
“Do you want the real answer?”
“Yeah, lay it on me.”
“Okay…I hate it.”
I shook my head emphatically. “No, no, no. You don’t hate hockey. I distinctly remember you telling Jett that he was your favorite player during one of those locker room interviews you do sometimes.”
“I was lying,” he deadpanned.
“No way. You might think you hate hockey, but you don’t.”
Walker frowned and set his hands on his hips. “I do. I really, really do. There’s too much fighting, it’s too intense, and too dangerous. The potential for head injuries and long-term brain damage is astonishing.”