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)
CHAPTER 19
TY
I read Walker’s text…over and over, unsure what to make of it.
You should come.
He was kidding. And I had a perfect opening to turn this into something playfully dirty. I should come…in your ass. I miss that ass. I miss you. I miss—
Okay, that clearly wasn’t the right tactic.
I set my phone on the bench and tied my skates while silently working on a snappy response that wouldn’t give me a chubby.
To Toronto?
Yes.
Running emoji. I’m on my way.
I stared at my cell for a beat, then shoved it into my locker and headed for practice.
Two hours later, I retrieved my cell from my locker, wiping sweat from my brow as I scrolled our recent conversation.
You should come. To Toronto.
A missed message from my agent popped up too. Weird. Toby didn’t call unless he needed something. Our most recent contact was a few weeks ago after I’d done the last segment for What’s New, Smithton? and I was pretty sure he’d said he’d touch base with me in the new year.
I showered and changed quickly, pressing his contact info as I stepped outside.
“Hey, Toby. What’s up?”
“Did you know that the influencer kid’s dad is Ketchum Clomsky?”
I froze.
Fuck.
I hadn’t been expecting that one. I stopped for a beat, but the cold December wind wasn’t conducive to a slow stroll. I picked up my pace, making a beeline for the parking lot.
“I…um, where’d you hear that?” I asked as I unlocked my Jeep and slid behind the wheel. I started the engine to get the heater running, aware that my heart had jumped to my throat.
“Someone with the Jackals dug it up as part of their due diligence. They’ve got a rookie making waves before he’s on their ice, and they wanted to be sure he wasn’t aligning himself with PR issues. Turns out his parents are more weirdly famous than we thought. Ketchum Clomsky. Can you believe that? No one has seen Clomsky in a decade. He dropped off the face of the earth. Substance abuse…or maybe painkillers. Poor bastard. You don’t know anything?”
“Me? No.” Which was basically true.
“Really? Woodrow never shared that his father played in the N-H-fucking-L with someone who punched his ticket to the pros? Seems odd if you ask me, but hey…interesting news, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, uh…it is.” The stammering shit had to stop. I took a deep breath and added, “But it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“Maybe not directly. Interesting coincidence. I can just see a clever PR person take the opportunity to pull the strings together and make something out of nothing.” Toby snort-laughed, but his tone changed slightly. “Then again, how cool would it be to have a past legend endorse a rookie? Huh, that might be a good angle to—”
“Nah, I’d let it go. I should prove myself on my own.”
“Are you nuts? Associative marketing works, Czerniak. It’s why I told you to sit for Woodrow’s interview in the first place.”
“Right, and I did.”
“On the other hand, if Clomsky has fallen on hard times or is involved with anything unsavory, you’ll need to back away. Negative association is a real bitch.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said brusquely. “Sorry, I have to let you go. I’m in the middle of something. Happy holidays, Toby. I’ll talk to you next year.”
I ended the call and stared out the snow-streaked windows.
Fuck. This could get messy.
No, I hadn’t betrayed a confidence, but I felt responsible somehow. I had to let Walker know that some intrepid PI-wannabe had cracked the code.
Soon.
Langley’s parties were either medium intensity or wild and crazy with no holds barred. This one was the latter.
Music thumped through the speakers above the sound of laughter and drunken chatter. It seemed like everyone who was still on campus was here, jockeying for space to dance in the living room, hang out in the kitchen, or smoke on the porch.
I surveyed the mess of chips and dips on the kitchen counter and the puddle of beer in front of the sink that looked like piss on the dirty tile floor. Honestly, I had no idea how Gus’s roommate put up with him. The place was well on its way to being trashed, and it wasn’t even midnight.
I scraped my thumb on the edges of the label of my beer bottle and politely nodded along with whatever the fuck the blond with bubblegum-pink lips and the plunging neckline was saying. Her tits were all kinds of distracting, but I kept my eyes on her face and resisted the urge to check the time. I wanted to go home. Badly.
And I wasn’t taking anyone with me. When Brady and Regan stumbled into the room, I pulled them into our conversation and oh, so stealthily made my escape. I spotted Gus grinding against a pretty brunet as I shrugged my jacket on and sneaked past the sea of bodies at the door. I was almost there, but—