Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Denny
The press calls me this year’s hot shot, the rookie who scores at will and conjures plays out of thin air. Truth is…I’m a PR nightmare. Seriously. Ask my agent.
My anxiety is off the charts. I can’t talk to the media without breaking into a cold sweat, but once I get through the season, I can regroup at home. Life is simpler in Vermont.
Well, not anymore. There’s a new cowboy in town. Literally, a cowboy. At least, Hank looks like one—he owns a horse, wears a hat, and did I mention he’s hot?
And get this…he has a proposition for me.
Hank
Proposition is a strong word. I prefer to call this a mutually beneficial arrangement. See, I could use Denny’s help with a family business venture, and though I was planning to offer cash, the jock has a sexier idea.
Not gonna lie, I’m interested.
This could be a fun distraction while I’m stuck in Elmwood. Nice enough place, however, the locals are wary of an outsider taking over the neighboring mill. Long story short…they don’t trust me. But they love their hometown hockey hero.
I get it.
I’ve never met anyone like Denny—skittish in street clothes and a feral beast with cunning instincts on the ice. He’s fascinating, sexy, smart, and—
Whoa! I’m not falling for the hotshot rookie. No way, no how, no chance…
Too late.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
DENNY
“You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”—Wayne Gretzky
“This defense isn’t prepared for Denver’s rookie,” the sportscaster commented. “Denny Mellon is quick and agile and—he stole the puck again! It’s a breakaway for Mellon! He’s blasting toward the goal. Oblinsk is ready, but this guy is lightning. Mellon fakes a pass, takes a high shot to the upper left corner, and…scores! NHL’s new hotshot is on fire!”
The Bleacher Report
The hotshot is at it again. Denny Mellon, Denver’s power forward, is earning his ice time and putting his team on the map.
ESPN
There are some talented rookies out there having great seasons, but Denny Mellon is arguably the best. He’s an impact player with speed, skill, and poise, and Denver’s hotshot is a mad scoring machine reminiscent of hockey’s greatest players.
Sports Illustrated
Denny Mellon is the undisputed golden boy in Denver, scoring and assisting at will every time he takes the ice, Mellon dazzles fans, who chant, “Hotshot!” from the rafters.
“Yo, Hotshot! Welcome home!”
I waved at the shadowy figure outside the bar and sighed.
Were you supposed to get a say in a nickname? If so, I wanted a redo.
There had to be something better out there than Hotshot. It was too silly, too flighty, too showy. I was none of those things. How about Speed Demon, or Speedy, or just…Demon? I was open to all ideas and propositions.
Oh, wait. That didn’t sound right. Propositions came with connotations. Nothing good ever came from an opening line like, “I have a proposition for you.”
Interesting, funny, ridiculous, smarmy, terrifying…sure. But not good.
Of course, I had zero to no experience in such matters. Elmwood wasn’t Vegas…or Denver. We didn’t do propositions here. We dared each other to do things we’d planned on doing anyway, like climbing the roof of St. Finbarr’s and chugging beers under the stars or maybe going skinny-dipping in Lake Norman at midnight.
But that was in high school, when impromptu parties and dubious decision-making had practically been badges of honor. I was old enough to know better now, and I did.
I rubbed my hands together and glanced up at the black awning over the bar attached to the Black Horse Inn, a small motel at the fringe of forest in southern Vermont. The bar advertised itself as a charming gem from a simpler time. If you were into sticky tabletops, watered-down beer, a perpetual playlist of hokey songs from the sixties and seventies, and ambient lighting so dim it was hard to see two feet in front of your face, then…yes, this was the right spot.
To me, it looked and felt like home.
And damn, it was good to be back…if only for a short time. The mellow hum of everyday life in Elmwood was a welcome respite from the reality of grueling practices, high-stakes games, and constant travel. I liked my team, and I’d met nice people in Denver. I just couldn’t relax there.
Sure, I was killing it in the NHL, but a rookie had a lot to prove. I had to be a-fucking-mazing every night. I had to put in a thousand percent effort, smile through rough hits, and shake off idiotic jabs meant to fuck with my concentration on the ice. None of that was particularly challenging for me. The hardest part was not knowing who I could trust.
That wasn’t the case here. The second I walked into the bar, I knew I’d be greeted with a sea of friendly faces, high fives, fist bumps, and hugs. However, I was still me, and I didn’t do well with crowds or people in general. Even at home.
Awkward? Yep, that description fit.
I sucked in a fortifying breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my leather jacket, and tapped my thumbs against my upper thigh to calm my nerves before I pushed open the door, mentally preparing myself for a huge helping of unfiltered, in-your-face attention, and—well, you’ll see.
“Denny!”
A whoop of applause and cheers echoed from the rafters of the old bar. Next thing I knew, the whole place was chanting the nickname a sports reporter had given me after my premier game in the NHL a few months ago.
“Hotshot! Hotshot! Hotshot!”
Ugh.
I pushed forward with my chin tucked to hide my certain blush, slapping high fives like a pro on my way to the bar.
Side note: The bartender here knew everyone’s name and beverage preference. There was no waiting or overthinking your poison of choice for the night. Bill took one look at the door, gave the newcomers an up-nod, and got to work. It didn’t matter how long it had been since your last visit to the Black Horse—he never forgot a name or an order.
“Denny Mellon! I saw that goal last night. Your money is no good here tonight, Hotshot,” Bill boomed. “Drinks on the house for you.”
I probably should have insisted that was unnecessary, but I’d done this dance a few times and knew Bill wouldn’t relent. There was no point in expending my finite amount of social energy on an argument I wouldn’t win. So I thanked the older man before heading toward the high table near the ancient jukebox in a dark corner of the bar where my idiot friends were screaming their lungs out.