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)
Bryson was Jake’s dad and that might have been enough to make me think twice about attending, but fuck that. In spite of the fact that he’d spawned an ass bucket, Bryson was a great guy and his husband, Smitty, was too. They regularly opened their home for pre-camp celebrations, so I’d been invited dozens of times.
It was always a good time with great food, good laughs, and lots of kids and dogs running amok. And of course, Jake and I avoided each other. Easy to do in big party situations. The only instance where I’d been forced to acknowledge the dreaded weekend ahead was when Smitty had brought it up.
“Two days in the forest on a camping expedition with teens. You’re braver than me,” he’d singsonged.
“Nah, camping is fun, man,” I’d bluffed. “You should join us…maybe take Jake’s place.”
Smitty had snickered and issued a half-joking warning to be nice. I’d promised to try. I’d woke up this morning and given myself a stern talking to. Don’t let that fucker get under your skin and if possible, be…pleasant.
But he’d nagged me about a hat and blown it. Yeah, this was going to be a long fucking two days, I mused, smacking a mosquito on my forearm.
“Welcome, campers!” Vinnie called out from a rocky ledge next to the lake.
The sun sparkled on the indigo water behind him, and a canopy of elms offered a stingy bit of shade to the father-son duo huddling nearby, hanging on Vinnie’s every word. The rest of us gathered in a semicircle, backpacks at our feet, blearily clutching our coffee cups.
It was a relatively small group: eight pro hockey players and a medley of families who’d paid for the privilege of a once-in-a-lifetime experience. We were divided into four teams—two hockey stars per family—and according to the itinerary, we’d spend day one participating in a series of competitions at the lake.
“Good morning!” a few chipper campers responded.
“I know, I know. It’s early. I was out of bed before my kids this morning…and the dogs,” Vinnie groused playfully. “Now I know you’ve been introduced to your hockey hero counselors, and we’ve been through the rules and emergency protocols a few times, but I want to remind you that this is a real live forest and not every trail is groomed or safe. There’s one ‘Elmwood expert’ on each team who’s familiar with the terrain. If you have any Elmwood-specific questions, talk to Jake Milligan, Denny Mellon, Court Henderson, and Zach Featherman…who, by the way, just signed with the Penguins. I don’t think the ink is dry on that one. Congrats, man.”
We cheered for Zach, a lanky twenty-two-year-old from Pinecrest who’d been playing for an AHL team based in Florida for a year. He’d been paired with Brick Branoff, an NHL D-man who literally resembled a brick wall. Thick all over with a shock of red hair.
Denny’s partner was Mack Jorgeson, a Swedish player for Seattle who could have been a body double for Chris Pine…only better looking. Court, a retired AHL D-man turned coach was with Jacques Michel, a French-Canadian powerhouse and one of the most popular forwards in the league…after Denny. And me.
The teams had been chosen with care. The families had donated a fuckton of money for the experience with the guarantee of small groups with top-notch athletes. On Team Trinsky-Milligan, we had David, a forty-five-year-old tech exec from California; his two sons, Michael and Milo; and his father, Howard. Six of us total…oh, and a videographer. Ray or Jay? Don’t quote me.
I finished the last of my latte and dumped the to-go cup into a nearby trash bin while Vinnie explained the swim and Jet Ski competitions. Then I hefted my gear onto one shoulder and studied my group.
David, the uber-fit dad with jet-black hair and zero body fat stood next to Howard, a pale-faced balding man in his early seventies, under a tree. Our teens, Milo and Michael, were all elbows and knees in designer swim trunks and expensive sneakers. Ray or Jay was bent over his camera, a mop of curly brown hair shielding his face. His jeans, long-sleeved tee, and Birkenstocks screamed camping novice, but hey…maybe that was how he rolled.
And of course, we had Jake. No description needed, but in case you’re curious, his navy swim trunks matched his ball cap, his backpack, and his Crocs. Yeah…Crocs.
I didn’t actually hate Crocs, but I’d diss ’em ’cause I had the maturity of an eggplant, or so Jake inferred. Besides there was really no way I could be expected to be nice for forty-eight hours straight…was there?
Nah.
“Lookin’ Croc-tastic, Milligan,” I whispered.
Jake frowned and shushed me, which made me want to step on his toes. “I don’t know if this is possible, but we need to come up with a plan to stay out of each other’s way.”