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)
“So simple. Just press your tongue to the roof of your mouth,” he informed the audience.
And me? I was still scooping ice cream.
By the time I snapped to attention and realized I’d contributed nothing more than manual labor, we were nearing the end of our allotted time.
“I have scoopers’ tendonitis,” I joked. “Can we move on to the add milk and press Go part now?”
Chuck snorted. “Sure thing. Do you want extras? Chocolate chips, cookie bits, candy bars?”
“Fu—fudge, yes.”
Walker shot a faux-mortified glance my way followed by an over-the-top sigh and a breathtaking grin aimed at the camera. “Phew! Hockey players and their potty mouths.”
I tossed a cherry at him, unthinking, and grimaced. Shit, there was probably some kind of rule about not throwing fruit at the host during filming. I smiled tepidly and raised my hands in surrender. Walker and I weren’t buddies, so I expected anything from a harsh glare to a bout of nervous laughter, but no…he surprised me again.
Walker picked up the cherry that had landed on the floor at his feet and beaned it at my head before reaching for the industrial-sized can of whipped cream, his eyes glinting with mischief and mayhem.
“Out of consideration for our gracious hosts, I wouldn’t dare squirt this foamy deliciousness at my guest star in the hallowed kitchen of Bear Depot, but let it be known there will be retribution.” He clenched his fist as if declaring war, and it was all very…silly.
The Depot spectators snickered at our antics, and even Chuck cracked a grin, snatching the whipped cream container out of Walker’s hand. “Let’s stay on track, shall we, gentlemen?”
“Yes, of course,” Walker agreed. “Next we add milk, correct?”
Walker poured milk while I smashed some cookies with a rolling pin. I popped a piece into my mouth and earned a smack on the wrist from my cohost, who instructed me to transfer the crushed cookies into the vat. The second my back was turned, he stole a cookie, which resulted in a mini cookie standoff.
Okay, none of this was comedy gold, but it was kinda, sorta funny. And entertaining.
We chose toppings while the blender did its thing, then transferred the milkshake into two glasses and went to town decorating them. Mine was a potpourri of basically anything I could get my hands on—chocolate syrup, three types of sprinkles, marshmallow topping, caramel sauce, whipped cream, cookie bits, gummy worms, and five cherries. And Walker’s looked like something out of a fancy gourmet magazine. He’d drizzled chocolate symmetrically, added rainbow sprinkles, and dotted whipped cream around the circumference and set one single cherry on top.
“If this was a beauty contest, I’d lose, but damn, this shake is tay-stee!” I dipped my spoon into my shake and grinned for the camera as I pivoted to Walker. “Have a bite.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Get that monstrosity away from me, hockey man. I’m going to enjoy this classier concoction.”
“More for me.” I waggled my brows and took a huge bite, stifling a chuckle when Walker widened his eyes comically for his audience.
“Thanks so much for tuning in. If you ever get the opportunity to visit Smithton, New York, a trip to Bear Depot Diner is an absolute must! I’ve done segments on their amazing breakfast menu and their killer burgers, but everyone in town will tell you to order a shake too. Granted, theirs are usually a bit more understated than”—he hiked a thumb in my direction—“the ‘everything but the kitchen sink’ recipe my esteemed guest has created. And they’re oh, so delish. I want to thank the owners, managers, and staff here at the Depot for allowing us to come by. And a special thanks to Ty Czerniak, Smithton Bears hockey team’s star backward—”
“Forward,” I corrected, rolling my eyes.
“Just kidding. Thank you, Ty, and good luck on your season and beyond.”
“Thanks.”
“Be sure to subscribe to my channel on that fabulous button below, and while you’re at it, vote for our milkshakes. Would you rather have a sip of mine”—Walker held up his glass, then pointed at my overflowing sticky mess—“or Ty’s? Let us know in the comments.”
“I’m totally gonna win,” I taunted with way more confidence than anyone whose milkshake was slowly morphing into a nasty shade of green should have.
“Totally…not,” he countered, smiling at the camera. “And that, my friends, is what’s new in Smithton.”
Walker flashed a megawatt grin and lifted his milkshake in a toast. At the very last second, he stuck his finger in the whipped cream and deftly dotted the end of my nose.
I furrowed my brow in mock outrage as someone called, “Cut.”
Chuck squeezed my shoulder and handed me a napkin. “You’re a good sport, Czerniak. But stick to hockey, eh? I don’t think anyone’s gonna buy your milkshake.”
I snickered, setting my glass aside to offer to help with clean up. Walker and his crew had a system, so I stayed out of the way and watched them work. Within ten minutes, they’d finished, said another round of thank-yous to the staff, and that was a wrap.