Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“Whoa, you went big.”
“Meh, it’s not as scandalous as it sounds. I’ve nursed those babies while I enjoyed a huge cheeseburger and a pile of fries,” he reported, pushing his empty plate away.
“I had the same meal. Minus pink ketchup.”
Bryson snort-laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re not a fan of the classic ketchup and ranch dressing combo.”
I gave an all-body shiver and contorted my facial expression to pure horror. “It’s…okay.”
“No way, it’s amazing. I rarely eat fries, so when I do I make sure to pig out in style.” He nudged my elbow as if we were a couple of old pals. “So…no bar-hopping for you? I’m a little surprised. That was a nice win.”
“Definitely, but I don’t bounce back the way I used to. I celebrated with an ice bath, a shit-ton of ibuprofen…and a burger.” I raised my glass in a mock toast, gazing briefly at the flat-screen behind the bar. “The Red Wings are killing the Sabres. Sweet.”
“Detroit fan?”
“Born and raised. It’s a prerequisite. Who’s your team?” I asked, hoping my conversation game wasn’t too rusty.
“Philly. Born and raised.”
“Ahh.”
Okay, and now, I was officially out of words. Fuck, why had I come downstairs?
This was stupid; I was stupid. I didn’t know how to talk to men like Bryson. He looked like a banker or a lawyer—the type of guy who was comfortable in a suit and tie. That was so not me, it wasn’t even funny. I was the player who’d sneak out of arenas, hightailing it to my truck to avoid the hassle of changing in and out of a suit that made me feel like an impostor.
I still rode the bus with the team most of the time and I wore the suits if required, but I wriggled out of the ritual whenever I had the chance. Like tonight.
“How long have you played for Toronto?”
“Ten years,” I replied, eyes fixed on the flat-screen.
Bryson whistled. “Really? Isn’t it kind of unusual to stay with one team for that long nowadays? Seems like being traded multiple times throughout a career is the norm.”
“Not necessarily. It’s different for everyone. I played for Detroit, then Vegas before landing in Toronto. I like it there. Management takes care of their players, and the coaching staff is top-notch. And…they like me.” I winked and took another sip.
“I’m sure they do,” he agreed conversationally. “I heard you were retiring this year. Is that true?”
“Yeah, I thought I’d be bummed about it, but my body is begging for a break. I played with a torn meniscus for half of last season, and that should have been the end. I guess I wasn’t ready to quit. Now, I don’t feel like I have a choice. I’m not sad, though. I have a plan in place and hobbies and shit to keep me busy.”
“Oh, yeah? What are your hobbies?”
“That’s like a bad date question, man,” I teased.
He smacked my arm and turned a pale shade of pink. “I’m curious for the sake of curiosity—nothing more. Jake plays guitar, one of his best friends on the Scorpions builds Legos, and another player he’s close to is an avid hiker. Hobbies are good.”
“What’re yours?”
“Meh, I don’t have a good one. I jog.” He twisted the stem of his glass. “Does that count?”
“It counts if you say so.”
Bryson smiled. “Well, don’t keep me guessing. What’s yours?”
“I build stuff,” I said with a shrug.
“Like what?”
“Anything. Bookshelves, tables, chairs. I’m good at fixing things, too. Like flat tires.”
He hummed in agreement. “Thank God you are. Who taught you?”
“My dad was in construction. He was a plumber, actually, but he used to drag me along to job sites when I was a kid. The guy he worked for hired me for short gigs…if I didn’t have practice or a game. I liked it. My dad didn’t want me to like it, though. He was all about having a kid who played pro hockey.” My tone sounded oddly bitter to my ears, and it didn’t make sense. I’d wanted to play hockey as much as my dad had wanted it for me.
Bryson perceptively dropped the family tangent. “I heard you played for the NHL a couple of times, too. That must have been exciting.”
I lifted a brow. “You looked me up?”
He wrinkled his nose. “No, but your name came up after my son pushed you into the boards and tried to clobber you.”
I chuckled heartily. “I can only imagine.”
“I was with some friends tonight—one of whom was Jake’s former coach. He takes it personally when his former players forget their training.” Bryson set his glass on the bar. “I think you know Riley. He mentioned that he was hoping to lure you to coach at our new high school in Elmwood.”
“Elmwood,” I repeated. “Oh, Riley Thoreau. Yeah, of course I know him. He was at the game tonight?”