Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
But the buskers still battle for ears on every street corner, the smell of Cajun food and powdered sugar fills the air, and locals weave through the chaos on their way to work or lunch at a place, we do our best to keep a secret from the influencers.
I used to be one of those locals, just another guy checking his six before ducking down an alleyway to my favorite dive.
Now, I’m the guy who gets double-takes from dads pushing strollers, teens attached to their phones, and middle-aged women in yoga pants.
“Yeah, that’s him, I’m positive,” an ashy blonde assures her friend in a whisper I can’t help feeling was meant to carry. “My son has his rookie poster on his wall.”
I pull my ball cap lower and pick up the pace toward Café Le Pain Invisible, where Parker’s probably already gorging on gluten-free donuts, but I haven’t gone a block before two guys in LSU jerseys stop arguing about football to gape at me as I pass. One even pulls out his phone, and I hear him snap a picture as I walk away.
Jesus, is this what happens when you score twice in a hometown opener?
I had no idea the Voodoo would catch on this fast.
I’ve been recognized before—hockey fans in Portland were great, and always excited to get a selfie when my teammates and I were out at a bar after a game—but this feels different. More personal. Like, suddenly I’m not a niche pro-athlete, only the hardcore hockey fans are going to notice.
This feels like a quarterback with his face splashed all over a Super Bowl ad kind of attention, and it’s honestly…kind of strange.
I mean, I’m glad that my hometown seems to be falling hard for the new team, but I’ve never wanted to be famous. I just want to play the game I love, save enough money to support myself after my NHL career is over, and continue to live my life without a bunch of extra attention.
Thankfully, I’m soon off the main drag, hustling down an alley into a semi-private garden where tables from three different cafés vie for space between planters and weathered statues.
The tables are all full on this finally cool-ish fall day, and there’s no sign of Parker, so I head inside. As the cowbell above the door clatters at my arrival, I spot him in the back by the wall of books, scrolling on his phone. He’s dressed in designer jeans and a delicately-wrinkled linen shirt, looking way more like the type of guy who would get noticed on the street than I do in a T-shirt and battered Badgers ball cap.
“You’re late,” he says with a long-suffering sigh, not bothering to glance up from his phone. “And after you woke me up early on a Saturday morning, too.”
“Fifteen minutes late is on time in Cajun.” I drop into the chair across from him, grateful for the peace in the cozy café after the chaos on the street. “And parking was shit. I had to wait ten minutes for a bachelorette van full of penis balloons to pull out of the only spot left in the lot.”
Parker glances up, interest sparking in his eyes. “Penis balloons? I wonder where they got them?”
I arch a brow. “Didn’t know you were in the market.”
“A car full of penis balloons would be a great rookie prank,” he says, waving at the barista with the familiarity of a man with a gluten allergy who practically lives at Café Le Pain Invisible. “Share Bear, can I get another cortado, darlin’, and a…” He shoots me a pointed look.
“Just an espresso is good,” I say, smiling at the tiny, multi-pierced woman with spiked black hair manning the machine.
“And an espresso,” Parker adds, though she heard me. “Add ‘em both to my tab. And if you can snag me a fat slice of the gluten-free carrot cake when it’s ready, you’ll be my favorite.”
“I’m already your favorite,” she says with a laugh. “And the first slice is yours. It just needs to cool another ten or fifteen minutes, and Minnie’s going to ice it.”
Parker beams. “Can’t wait.” Turning back to me, he adds in a softer voice, “I need sugar and caffeine to make my brain feel happy. Unlike you, who are clearly getting your dopamine hit from banging your brains out. Tell the truth, why were you late? Penis balloons or afternoon delight?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I plead the fifth.”
He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Gross, but good for you, man. Somebody on the team should be getting laid aside from Nix and his cougar harem. Saw him at the club last night with another one. Dude needs therapy. Oh, speaking of therapy…” He trails off, smiling up at the barista as our coffees are delivered. “Thanks, Sherry. You’re an angel of caffeine.”