Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
I liked how I felt when he was near—a little stronger, a little more confident, and infinitely more certain of who I was…a bisexual man who’d met someone pretty fucking special at exactly the right time.
I kissed his chest and rested my head on his shoulder. “Late night?”
“Not too bad. It’s only midnight.” Jean-Claude captured my wrist and kissed my fingers.
“Seems later.”
“You had a busy day. How was Burlington?”
“Fine.” I didn’t want to go into any details now. That shit could wait till morning. “How was your day?”
“Normal day. Nothing exciting till you came by the diner,” he said sleepily.
I buried my face in his neck and smiled. “Mmm. When I was a kid, we had this dinnertime tradition where we’d go around the table and share your favorite and least favorite part of your day. Something good was usually food oriented, like ‘Grandpa took us out for ice cream after school.’ Or ‘Grandma made chocolate chip cookies.’ The worst was always school. Dunno why ’cause school was fine.”
“I bet you were a cute kid—un enfant mignon,” Jean-Claude purred indulgently. “Play your game for me now. What are your best and worst highlights?”
“The doctor says I’ve improved.”
“That’s a good one,” he hummed softly. “And the not so favorite highlight?”
“I dropped half of my fries on the floor in Vinnie’s Jeep.”
“Oh, that’s bad.”
“But they fell on a spare blanket so…I ate them anyway.”
He snorted. “Wise decision.”
We chuckled softly; then Jean-Claude leaned over to turn off the lamp.
My eyes drifted shut as I burrowed under the covers. “What’s your best and worst?”
“Easy. The best was when you walked into the diner, the worst was when you left. Bonne nuit, mon cher.”
I inhaled deeply as if savoring his words. No one had ever said anything like that to me. So simple, so sweet, so…lovely.
I changed my answer.
He was my favorite, and this was by far the best part of my day.
“What’s the deal, Trunk? Are you coming back or not?”
I propped my stick against the plexiglass, furrowing my brow as I flopped onto the bench facing the rink. I’d checked my messages in between helping Vinnie run drills with the juniors. Mom wanted to know what date I was coming home for Christmas, my sister wanted the same thing, and a telemarketer wanted to sell me insurance. I’d return my mom and sister’s calls and ignore the sales guy, but this one…
“Chili?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry, I should ask how you’re feeling or some shit, but I saw a video of you with Kimbo on the ice. You look like yourself. I mean, you’re skating well and if you can keep up with him, you’re probably ready for real action.”
You know, if this was any other teammate, I would have chuckled, called Kimbo over to kick ass via cell, and suggested we FaceTime for more impact instead.
But not Chili. He was the one teammate I hadn’t spoken to since I bonked my head. Our co-captain status should have been reason enough for either of us to reach out, but neither of us had bothered ’cause at the end of the day, we weren’t buddies. I figured he was rooting for my early retirement, and I was doing my best to disappoint him. Our opposing interests and ten-year age gap didn’t jibe, and that was kind of understandable.
So…why had he called now?
“You can’t have my locker till I say so, Chili,” I teased, motioning to my phone when Vinnie called out a greeting.
“What? Shut up.” He snort-laughed. “I don’t want your fuckin’ locker. I’m just…wondering. ESPN says you’re done, and Coach isn’t saying much of anything. We’re getting our asses handed to us every other night, and it would be nice if someone…older—”
“Fuck you.”
“And wiser…”
“Better,” I amended.
“Could help boost morale and…stuff,” he finished. “Even if you really are retiring, you owe us a good month. We’ve sucked since you’ve been gone, and I think you stole our mojo.”
“So you miss me.”
Childress grunted. “Something like that. We could use some positive press. Coach is probably weighing replacement options for you…no offense, but in the meantime, the team needs you, and our fans need to see you. It’s a mental thing, so I guess I’m trying to say…get better and get your ass to Seattle.”
Not gonna lie. That was nice to hear.
It was also deeply superstitious and maybe a little warped, but I understood mental mumbo jumbo better than most. I’d heard all the same rumors about my career too. And Childress was right. Of course management was in trade talks now, hoping to salvage the year before it became an early season write-off.
No one expected me to be a hero. I was a team commodity in good health or bad, and I was at the end of my shelf life. It should have stung that my presumed usefulness was as a figurehead on the bench rather than an asset on the ice, but I supposed this was the crux of being an aging athlete. My ego insisted I was someone my body didn’t know anymore.