 by Lane Hayes.jpg)
Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Vinnie
Hockey is in my blood. I learned to skate before I learned how to ride a bike. I’ve been on a wild ride, playing at the highest level for some of the biggest and best teams in the league. But now it’s over, and I’m not sure what to do with myself.
So I’m going home to Elmwood.
But I’ll tell you what I’m not gonna do—I’m not going to coach my buddy’s junior hockey league. No chance. I don’t know how to deal with kids, and besides, the other coach—who happens to be my best friend’s brother—hates me. With reason.
That may be old news, yet something tells me we’re going to have to deal with the past.
And that’s almost as scary as coaching teens.
Nolan
No, I don’t hate Vinnie, but he drives me nuts.
He’s cocky, goofy, selfish, and yeah…after all these years, I’m still attracted to him. But I’m a responsible adult now. I run my family’s business, and with the help of my ex, I’ve made Elmwood Diner into a New England institution.
So maybe my life isn’t particularly exciting at the moment, and maybe Vinnie isn’t the worst. Nonetheless, I have no desire to rekindle a friendship with the hockey hero who no doubt will be on the first flight out of town the second he gets bored or gets a better offer.
And I’m not coaching with him. No way.
Ugh…
I can’t believe I’m doing this again.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
VINNIE
“Our enemies can never hurt us very much. But oh, what about forgiving our friends?”—Willa Cather, My Mortal Enemy
Lights flashed and cell phones lit up the arena as the starting lineup took to the ice. Our hometown crowd roared in anticipation and appreciation, stomping their feet, clapping, and whooping like maniacs. These fans were voracious—and thankfully, forgiving.
Our season had been lackluster at best. We’d been plagued by injuries, a management shake-up, and a host of twenty other excuses that had kept us from the playoffs for the first time in a decade.
Not the way I wanted to go out, but this was it—the final game of my sixteen-year career.
My teammates slapped their palms on the C on my jersey and bumped my fist as their names were called.
Riley Thoreau, a talented center, a good friend, and most likely my replacement as captain, knocked his helmet against mine and grinned. “Gonna miss you, Kimbo.”
“Who’s gonna hide your tape next year, Trunk?”
“No one, fucker.” He snorted, fiddling with his mouthguard.
Side note: Nearly every team member on every squad I’d played for since Pee Wees was given a nickname. Sometimes it was a simple abbreviation of their first or last name, like mine. My last name was Kiminski, and some wise guy my rookie year joked that I came at the opponent like Rambo, guns blazing, no prisoners taken and—boom, I became Kimbo. Trunk Thoreau, on the other hand, was an average-sized man whose big-ass quads resembled tree trunks. Makes sense, right?
It was going to be weird as fuck to return to a world where people used first names on the regular.
I shook off my mopey vibes and cupped my ear. “You hear that? They’re restless out there. Get your ass in gear so we can get the party started.”
“And I suppose you’re the party?”
“You know it.” I winked.
He stomped his skates on the rubber mat. “Are you ready for everyone to ask what you’re doing for the rest of your life? Or this summer?”
“Fuck, no.”
“Didn’t think so.” Trunk held out his fist and tilted his chin meaningfully. “It’s been an honor, man. A fucking honor.”
Great, now I was feeling verklempt. I didn’t want to be sad tonight, and I didn’t want to think about summer…or autumn or winter.
I wanted to be completely in the moment. I wanted this to be a celebration. One last awesome game before I hung up my skates.
I stood alone at the mouth of the tunnel and watched the spectacle of lights in the dark, smiling as the crowd chanted my name, “Kimbo, Kimbo, Kimbo…” I took a cleansing breath, then glided onto the ice.
Seventeen thousand screaming fans jumped to their feet, whistling and cheering. I thumped my chest twice and held my stick in the air in acknowledgment. If possible, the decibel level in the arena rose to a fraction beneath ear-splitting.
What can I say?
I was Seattle’s hero, the scariest D-man in the West. I never backed down, I was tough on the boards, grumpy when my team lost, and slightly obnoxious when we won. Sue me…I yam what I yam—a six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound wall of solid muscle, and the fans here loved me.
Or they were at least entertained by my antics. Air guitar, disco moves, the impromptu dog piles…yeah, I always brought the party. More importantly, I kicked ass on the ice. I protected the net, intimidated our opponents, and scored at will.