Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
I could be here in this tiny town on the outskirts of nowhere and just…be.
Except I was having a hard time relaxing.
Sunshine drenched the swath of lawn leading to the pond behind my house, sparkling like diamonds strewn on a sheet of glass. It was so peaceful. No traffic, no airplane noise…only quacking ducks and twittering birds.
Like the sparrow that had landed on my deck railing, eyeing the crumbs of peanut butter toast on the plate balanced on the armrest of my Adirondack chair. I went as still as possible, fascinated by the bird’s daring. The little fucker wanted that bread badly.
I found myself watching for blue jays and cardinals and grinning like a fool when one perched on the branches of the beech tree beside the deck. The riot of colors enchanted me. Blue skies, majestic green trees, red wings. Things I noticed as a kid and hadn’t in a while. I cradled my coffee mug, soaking in the natural beauty and wondering if it would be weird to get my binoculars out. Thirty-six was too young to become a serious birdwatcher…wasn’t it?
Maybe not, but I couldn’t spend all day watching birds. I had to think about what came next for Vin Kiminski. This place had given me direction when I was a kid, and I kind of hoped it would inspire me now, ’cause I really had no idea. Those burger joints I’d opened in Seattle were an investment, but I had nothing to do with the actual running of Blue Line Burgers. The only thing required was my name and money. Which was pretty much the same story in Elmwood.
I was more than happy to cash in on my NHL fame, but none of those ventures required much of my time. So…what was I going to do with my life? What did I even like besides hockey? Dogs, fishing, food…
Stay tuned for more deep thoughts with the idiot holding his breath for a greedy bird, I mused, jumping when my cell buzzed on the end table next to me.
“McD, how’re they hangin’?” I answered, my gaze flittering to the now empty railing.
My agent chuckled in a low smarmy tone I’d always associated with a stereotypical car salesman. Gary McDermott always had a sweet deal in the works and like most pompous braggarts, he loved to toot his own horn, but he’d done well by me, so I usually let him go on and on about his new boat, new SUV, new watch, new shoes, a new luxe vacation spot no one else knew about. Trust me, it was always something.
I wasn’t in the mood today. I wanted to protect the quiet I’d found here, but morbid curiosity won. Sure, I had contracts for a couple of years of athletic endorsements, but we both knew I wasn’t his big hitter anymore.
“Hangin’ low, baby. How are you doing in the Vermont boondocks? Or are you packin’ your bags for a Caribbean getaway? If you are, let me hook you up. Jen and I stayed at this killer resort in Montserrat. You’d love it. Turquoise water, white sand, blue skies, and fucking amazing cocktails. Take Sienna and turn it off for a while. You won’t be sorry.”
“Hmm, sounds nice,” I agreed distractedly.
“Yeah, man. Relax and chill and then…think about maybe coming back.”
“Where?”
“To hockey, baby.”
I shook my head in amusement. “I’m retired, remember?”
“Un-retire,” he countered. “What are you doing that’s so interesting now? Golfing? Watching Netflix?”
“Actually, I’m bird-watching.”
“Bird-watch when you’re eighty. C’mon, Kimbo, your fans love you. You’re good for the sport, and everyone thinks you’ve got at least one more season in you. Maybe not in Seattle, but what if, say…the Ducks were interested?”
I snort-laughed. “They don’t need me.”
“What if they did, though? What if they needed an image boost, and you were the guy they were talking about? What if they paid you a shitload of dough for a year? What if that deal won you endorsement extensions? We’re talkin’ big money, Kimbo. Many, many millions. You could be in LA, near Sienna—”
“Hey, thanks, but…I retired for a reason.” I sighed. “I wanted to end my career on a high note instead of a sad statistic or the old guy who doesn’t know when the party’s over.”
“You know I respect that, but maybe the party isn’t over. I’m giving you the 4-1-1. I have eyes and ears all over. You’re popular, and you still have something to add to the game. I’m talking to Mitch Campbell, and he’s fired up about you.”
“Gary…”
“Just think about it.” He let a poignant pause fill the silence, then blurted, “Hey…did I tell you about my new golf clubs? I’m taking them for a test drive in Torrey Pines next month. We’re staying at the…”
I tuned him out. I supposed it was nice to have an NHL option, but it was a ludicrous case of capitalizing on one last hurrah. I didn’t need more money. I didn’t need the accolades. Don’t get me wrong…I’d never forget the rush of hearing my name chanted in a filled-to-capacity arena. But how many curtain calls did a retiring athlete need or deserve? When the game became all about the money, was it even a game anymore? Or was it just a job?