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)
Scarier still, I wanted him to know me. That had to be why I’d shown him my renegade church etching. Those chicken scratch marks were hard evidence that I’d been churned up over him two decades ago. And now? Well…I didn’t know what I had to offer that he’d be interested in, so I gave him everything I had.
I shared the locker room antics of some of my favorite teammates, the thrill of hitting the ice on my first ever NHL game, and the bittersweet feel of saying good-bye at my last one. I talked about coaches I’d admired, rabid fans, sold-out venues, and puck bunnies. He snort-laughed at the story of the suburban mom who’d stuffed a G-string with her phone number into my pocket after I’d signed a puck for her son and the time I’d sat in an airport bar till midnight buying martinis for a group of cute little old hockey-loving ladies waiting to board their plane to Aruba.
I loved that I could still make him laugh. I would have happily sat on a barstool at the diner or on the dock at my place, regaling him with silly slices of life on the road all day, all night in exchange for whatever stories he was willing to share with me. Nolan wasn’t always an open book, which meant I had to do a little coaxing.
And surprising him with weird shit no one but him would understand seemed to do the trick.
For example, this morning, I marched into the diner, emptied my pocket, and pointed at Nolan. “That’s for you.”
“A rock. Gee, Vinnie, I’m touched.” The sarcasm was hard to miss, but his eyes lit up and a radiant smile spread across his face.
“Yep. I found it on my run this morning. It’s got those crystally bits you like inside.”
Nolan twisted the basic small gray stone in his hand, clearly amused by my Flintstones-inspired gift. “Weird, but…I like it. Thanks.”
I grinned. “You’re welcome. I’ll have the usual.”
“You got it.” He beamed at me, then slipped the rock into his pocket and turned to place my order in the kitchen.
JC came out to gab about hockey stats and talked me into trying some new veggie-and-cheese combo in my omelet. I agreed ’cause he was a good guy, an enthusiastic hockey fan, and two breakfasts gave me an excuse to linger for as long as I wanted. The diner’s coffee was amazing, and the omelets were to fucking die for.
I slid onto the same swivel stool at the counter I had almost every morning that summer and said hello to the same people who took the same seats at their booths. And I liked it.
Funny ’cause I’d hated the sameness of life here when I was younger. Now, I found it comforting. It helped that I didn’t expect this place to be something it wasn’t. I wasn’t looking for adventure, and I didn’t need to prove anything to myself anymore.
I’d been there, done that. But the locals still wanted to know what came next.
I had no idea.
I’d ignored a couple of recent texts from my ex and my agent who’d wanted to know the same thing.
Gary: Answer your damn phone, Kimbo. We need to talk.
Sienna: Call me, honey. I need you in Miami. And OMG, I heard a rumor you’re signing with LA!
I didn’t feel a burning need to talk to my agent and yeah, I could swing Miami for Sienna, but I hadn’t been in the mood to defend my retirement. It was a done deal as far as I was concerned. I had other things on my mind. Like needling Nolan while he organized the evening menu, replenished sugar packets, or whatever the fuck he was doing.
“That’s not how you’re supposed to fill a saltshaker.” I thanked him when he set two plates in front of me and immediately shoveled a piece of bacon into my mouth. “You’re wasting the salt. And shouldn’t you use that rock salt anyway? It’s fancier.”
Nolan shot me an irritated glance. “Fancier, eh?”
“Yeah, and this is a fancier joint nowadays,” I said.
“Not everyone here likes fancy. They want the old-fashioned saltshakers. So…I offer both.”
“You always were a pleaser.”
“You always were a dickwad,” he retorted with an affectionate glint in his eye.
He finished his task and picked up an iPad, skirting the counter and perching on the stool next to mine.
“Are you finished working?” I asked conversationally.
“For now. Yes.” He kept his eyes on his screen as he typed. “What’s with the rock, Vin?”
“You like rocks.” I shrugged awkwardly as I studied his profile, stoically resisting the urge to lean in and sniff him.
“I liked them when I was a kid.”
“What do you like now?” I picked up my fork and speared a cherry tomato.
He eyed me warily. “I like bagels.”
“Plain cream cheese or flavored?”