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)
The teens gravitated toward the bigger booths, climbing over each other and squeezing in till they were packed like sweaty sardines. The coaches were a bit more civilized. Six of us sat two tables away from them, talking about a wide variety of important topics, like what those frozen flavored tubes that were popular when we were kids were called.
“Otter Pops,” Denny said, licking whipped cream off his shake.
Trinsky and I shared a clandestine look that could have become dangerous if his cell hadn’t buzzed and ruined the moment. He fished his phone from his pocket, the conversation continuing at the table without skipping a beat.
“Freeze Pops.”
“Ice Pops.”
“Fla-Vor-Ice,” I offered.
“What do you think, Trinsky?” Dimistri asked.
Trinsky glanced up from his cell distractedly. “Otter Pops. Don’t bug me. I’m workin’ here. My agent is finalizing my contract. I’m gonna need a milkshake selfie to celebrate.”
“I’ll take it and post it for you.” Dimistri eyed the college-aged women at the table in between ours and the boys and added, “Hashtag Trinsky’s milkshake brings the girls to the yard.”
We chuckled, but a minute later, the women descended on our table. It was harmless. The sort of flirtatious fan moment we dealt with regularly. These women weren’t locals, though, and they were very…enthusiastic.
“Can we bother you for a selfie?” A pretty brunet with a low-cut sundress put her hand on Trinsky’s arm.
“Yeah, no problem.” He stood and posed for a few pictures.
“You better ask Milligan too,” Nikitinova chimed in. “He will get jealous.”
“Oh, no. We can’t have that.” A blond with long, curly hair and red lipstick purred.
I assured them I wasn’t jealous in the slightest, but now the guys were fully invested in making me uncomfortable, and our teen charges were watching the show with envy as if they couldn’t imagine anything cooler than being pursued by a group of pretty women. And maybe they were on to something, but it didn’t feel so great to me.
It took me a second to realize that it wasn’t the women or our idiot friends egging them on. It was the knowledge that this was the real world seeping into our private oasis. This wasn’t a well-meaning family member accidentally intruding on a quiet dinner. These were strangers looking for access to celebrities. Like it or not, that was us.
The brunet fluttered her impossibly long lashes at Trinsky, and dragged long red fingernails over his inked biceps. Bile rose to my throat on cue.
It was madness. I had no right to be jealous. At all.
“Hey, Milligan, what do you say?”
I snapped out of my reverie with a cough. “About what?”
The blond smiled up at me. “We’re staying at the Black Horse Inn. Come by for a drink at the bar later.”
“I’ll give you my number,” the brunet said, pulling a pen from her purse. “Can I write it on your hand?”
Trinsky played along, waggling his brows as if that were a borderline X-rated suggestion. The table hooted, the girls laughed, the campers craned their necks to see what was going on, and me…I died a little inside.
Reality was coming for me and it was going to suck, big-time.
24
TRINSKY
Istepped away from the group of tourists with heart eyes and my laughing peers, hiking my thumb toward the counter. Maybe they thought I wanted to track down the waiter or use the restroom…didn’t matter. I needed a minute. Christ, this acting shit was hard work.
“Are you looking for another order of poutine or a refill for your shake?” JC seemingly popped out of nowhere, wiping his hands on his white apron.
Elmwood’s celebrated chef was a big dude with reddish hair, ruddy cheeks, twinkling eyes, and a dry sense of humor. He liked feeding people and I loved to eat, so we’d struck up a casual repartee over the years that usually consisted of praise for his poutine or general hockey commentary.
“Neither.” I glanced at the group of hockey players and the pretty tourists.
“Ah, it’s not easy being popular, eh? I wouldn’t know, of course. No one likes me,” he deadpanned in a thicker than usual Quebecois accent.
I chuckled. “Can you blame them?”
“Not at all.” JC squinted, pointing a finger at my chest. “What is this I hear about you buying a house in Elmwood?”
“I—what?”
“Smitty and Bryson were here with the kids yesterday, and Nathan mentioned it out of the blue. He said all the hockey players are moving to town. Like Trinsky. How do you know this? I asked. In a twist, you told the nine-year-old while you were eating corn at Jake’s house. All of this is a surprise, oui? Elmwood, Jake, the corn…Perhaps you are friends after all?”
I nodded, unable and unwilling to lie. Weird, since I had a stranger’s phone number on my hand, and a group of peers nearby who’d swear I was as debauched as they came.