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)
“Heads up, Adam is gonna want you to give a few words.” Trinsky tipped his chin toward the team’s PR guru waiting at the end of the tunnel.
I sighed aloud. “Cover for me? I’m meeting someone tonight.”
Yeah, Trinsky’s coolness earned him complete sentences.
He cast a curious sideways glance my way. “Sure. Got a hot date, Hotshot?”
“No.”
“You’re blushing.” Trinsky elbowed me and waggled his thick brows comically. “I get it. You’re meeting someone who’s not your girlfriend.”
Okay, cool or not, he was still kind of a bonehead. I rolled my eyes but was saved from further explanation in the melee of bodies as we neared the hallway. I ducked into the locker room, shucking off my jersey and undoing my pads as I hobbled to my section.
As much as I would’ve loved to make a quick escape, I was contractually obligated to represent the team “to the best of my ability.” That clause had been added by my agent, who’d caught on early that I wasn’t leading-man material. They didn’t need me to be Mr. Charisma. We had plenty of other guys to charm reporters. Like our captain, Oskar Petrov—or Petey.
Petey was a gregarious and funny-as-fuck Russian in his midthirties and a talented goalie. His thick accent made it tricky to understand him sometimes, but he was inspiring, intelligent, and playful.
I overheard Petey mention my name as I hurried to get dressed after showering.
“That last goal was—how do you say…ridiculous, yes? We owe this win to our rookie, the hotshot boy,” Petey said, pausing when the locker room chanted, “Hotshot, Hotshot.”
My face was on fire as I shoved my feet into my shoes and yanked my sweater over my head. I had to get out of there, and that was me being my usual awkward-as-fuck self.
Yes, I’d been captain of my high school and college teams, but that was thanks to Coach Smitty, who’d been a gifted former AHL defenseman in his own right. He’d tapped me for the job at Elmwood High and he’d refused to take no for an answer. Coach had been tight with my college coach and had advocated on my behalf, suggesting that I’d be considered for a leadership role.
Maybe Coach Terrell had lost a bet to Smitty and owed him one? I’d never been as motivational or charming as Petey, but I’d done all right. And I’d probably never get another shot at it.
No one gave free shots in the NHL. You had to prove yourself every damn night. I’d moved up from third line to second line, but I was gunning for first. I was ambitious, I played to win, and I was willing to work my ass off to improve my game. That right there was the sound bite every reporter was looking for.
It was basic sports jargon—nothing special. But that shit was mine. My goals, my ambitions, the heart and soul of my relationship with the ice wasn’t something I could share. The words were too deep to access. I was always left with a suffocating sensation as if there were something obstructing my windpipe. Geez, choking out monosyllabic post-game replies felt a minor miracle some nights.
Like tonight.
A reporter cornered me before I reached the exit and shoved a microphone in my face.
“Congratulations on your win, Denny. The Condors are looking great just in time for the playoffs.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
The poor guy hesitated a beat and tried again. “How’d you feel about the game tonight?”
“Good game.” The microphone was still there, and the reporter was smiling like he expected insightful repartee. Fuck. You got this, Denny. Say something, anything. “We played hard.”
Weak sauce. The reporter knew it and no doubt every hockey fan in the world would agree, but at the moment, it was all I had.
And I had somewhere else to be.
Fifteen minutes later, I parked in the lot the Oak Tavern shared with a taqueria joint, a dry cleaner, a yogurt store, and a bike repair shop. It looked like an unassuming hole-in-the-wall. Of course, I’d googled it beforehand. I wasn’t an idiot, for fuck’s sake. I would never meet Hank Cunningham in some high-profile bougie sports bar where running into puck bunnies and super fans was a given…especially on a weekend. I tried not to go to those places anyway.
I’d also googled the Cunninghams.
There wasn’t much on Hank, per se. He was the youngest of Bruce Cunningham’s three kids, twenty-nine years old, graduated from Boulder, and…not much else. His older brother was thirty-three and lived in Texas, his sister was thirty-two and lived in California, and his mom had passed away almost twenty-five years ago. That was it.
But there was a lot of info about Bruce, the lumber pioneer who’d originally hailed from a tiny town near Lubbock, moved to Denver in the seventies and opened a successful lumber enterprise. Another article touched on Bruce’s recent health battles, but I didn’t delve any further. I wasn’t interested in his dad or the mill. I was here because…well, for blackmail reasons.