Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Maggie showed me the picture she’d drawn of a hippo, gave me her lunch order and messages for Ella. “Tell her I got pink sneakers. Tell her my headband matches my top. Tell her my dog ate my sock.”
“You got it. See you soon, Maggie.” I fist-bumped the five-year-old chatterbox and said good-bye to her mom, who just happened to be married to the girl I’d taken to prom our senior year.
Small world. God, I loved this place.
Good mood restored, I stepped inside the diner, smiling at the usual welcoming cacophony. A few fist bumps and handshakes later, I said hi to JC at the counter and made my way to a corner table by the window where McD sat with Vinnie Kiminski and Ronnie Moore.
Vinnie was a handsome big guy in his late forties with broad shoulders and dark hair threaded with silver. He’d been a wrecking ball on the ice in his time, and he still looked kind of fierce. Ronnie, on the other hand, was short, heavyset, bald, and had a perpetually sunny disposition. They were polar opposites looks-wise, but the very best of friends, co-owners of Elmwood Rink and Juniors’ Camp, and brothers-in-law.
Vinnie was married to Nolan Moore, who co-owned the diner and a couple of other restaurants in the Four Forest area with JC Bouchard, a French-Canadian chef and NHL great, Riley Thoreau’s husband.
And like I said, McD had been Vinnie’s agent for decades. There was a lot of connection here, so it wasn’t odd for the three of them to share a meal by any stretch, but the number one thing hockey had taught me over the years was to trust my gut.
These three were up to something.
“Sweet, you’re here.” Vinnie scooted to the window and patted the emerald-green faux-leather-upholstered booth in invitation. “I was just about to text you.”
“What’s up?”
“Rossman is out,” Ronnie reported.
It took me a beat to remember that Rossman was my camp partner for the upcoming charity fund raiser this weekend.
Last year Rossman and I had been paired with two brothers and their three kids on a fishing and hiking adventure for two nights in a tent under the stars. On the final day, we’d met in town for a scrimmage at the El Rink. It had been a fun weekend and a lucrative one for the rink and the camp. The money we’d raised had gone toward scholarships and development programs.
“Oh.”
Vinnie flashed a lopsided smile as he shifted to face me on the bench. “Yeah, but we’ve got a backup idea.”
McD and Ronnie exchanged a look I had no hope of translating. And just like that, I was on high alert again.
I stole a fry from Vinnie’s plate and narrowed my eyes. “What are you—”
A disturbance at the entrance jolted the attention of everyone in the restaurant. A twitter of recognition and a few gasps of disbelief were followed by a cheer, but before I could crane my neck to see what was going on, a group of teens pounded their fists on their table and chanted, “Trinsky! Trinsky! Trinsky!”
I swiveled on cue, my mouth open in astonishment.
No…no way.
No fucking way.
Vinnie squeezed my right arm. “Hear me out, Jake. I—”
“This is a joke, right?” I scrubbed my jaw, gritting my teeth as Mason Trinsky high-fived his way into the diner, stopping to sign a napkin and chat with Mr. and Mrs. Cabot, an octogenarian couple who lived across the street from my dad’s real estate office.
I listened with half an ear to Vinnie and McD yammering about algorithms, social media frenzies, and contracts while I observed the smug jerkwad holding court like a fucking rock god.
Trinsky oozed confidence with a good-natured, laid-back vibe. He was a favorite with Denver’s fans who were amused by his showmanship and cocky persona. He was popular with the campers in the juniors program too. But I rarely interacted with Trinsky in Elmwood if I could help it. There were tons of campers and other hockey players around, and I wasn’t a glutton for punishment.
So…what the fuck was happening here?
This was my hometown, my turf, my safe space.
“Two rivals at a family camp fund raiser. Think Amazing Race. Can you see those headlines? It’s awesome, free publicity, and the timing couldn’t be sweeter. Be realistic, Jake,” McD pleaded. “You’re thirty-two going on thirty-three. Ticket sales have been down for two years. And that’s not all on you. Maybe you’re not Boston’s franchise anymore, but you’re still a high-profile star and an asset to the organization. They need you to be more visible, and this right here is a fucking softball. Hockey fans across the league will eat this up.”
“There’s got to be someone else,” I mumbled. “Anyone.”
“It’s forty-eight hours, man,” Vinnie cajoled. “You can do anything for two days.”
Could I?
I had doubts. Big doubts.
4
TRINSKY
If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man.