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)
He threw his head back and laughed, a sweet unfettered sound that made me grin like a fool. “You use words like gleaning, and I can’t take you seriously.”
“What’s wrong with gleaning? It’s a perfectly good word.”
“Sure, but it’s a smarty-pants word.”
“I’m a smarty-pants,” I confirmed.
“I believe it. Were you the kid who sat in the front row, raised his hand to answer every question, and reminded teachers when they forgot to give homework?”
“Well…no.”
Smitty set his water bottle on the nightstand and rolled to face me. “No? Let me guess…you were the quiet type who knew all the answers but was too shy to speak up. Or maybe a late bloomer who went from geek to god senior year of high school? Which is it?”
“Neither,” I admitted with a laugh. “I was your classic troublemaker, one bad decision away from becoming a juvenile delinquent or a sad statistic.”
His jaw dropped. “No way. You?”
“Yep.”
“You’re saying we would have been friends in high school? ’Cause I was a total punk. If I hadn’t had hockey, fuck knows where I’d be now.”
“Maybe selling real estate in a small town…like me.”
“Maybe,” he drawled with a wide-eyed “yikes” expression. “So, what kind of delinquent were you?”
“The kind who hung with the wrong crowd—kids who were fun at parties, goofed off in class, and knew where to find cheap drugs.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. My parents were divorced and I was their only child, but they both had families from previous marriages. I have two half brothers who are twenty years older than me. I was the afterthought kid,” I stated. “My brothers would tell me how lucky I was that our dad didn’t care about curfew or chores or…anything. Or that our mom was too busy with Junior League and tennis to pay attention to me. I learned the hard way that I was the opposite of lucky and that my folks were just your garden variety, self-absorbed bad parents.”
“And you didn’t want to repeat their mistakes,” he guessed.
“Exactly. Unfortunately, that backfired. I’ve made a few of my own colossal mistakes.” I immediately grimaced. “That was meant to be a jab at my former less-responsible self, not a commentary on current circumstances.”
Smitty nudged my shin with his toes. “I got that. Though, I should probably at least be a little concerned about being here with you. As you might have guessed, I’m not out.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I promised. “No offense to you, but I don’t want anyone to know.”
“Like your son.”
“Correct. I prefer for Jake not to find out that after his nemesis changed my tire, I picked him up at a bar and begged him to fuck me.”
He barked a laugh, snorted, and made a zipped-lips motion. “Is that what happened?”
“More or less, but…I have no regrets.”
Smitty smiled. “Good. Me either. I wasn’t kidding when I said it’s been years, and this was fucking amazing.”
I held his gaze and nodded. “Yeah. When I wake up tomorrow, I’m going to wonder if this was a dream. Within a week, I’ll be sure of it.”
He knitted his forehead, then splayed his hand over my bare thigh and kissed my shoulder. “We should do it again, you know…to make the memory last a little longer.”
I slid the water bottle onto the nightstand and turned into his arms, slanting my mouth over his. “Good idea.”
It was so good and so…naughty, but so what? This was a one-night break from reality. Nothing more.
And the best part was that no one would ever know.
4
SMITTY
Four games later, Toronto was out of contention and my career in the AHL was officially over. I’d like to claim it was a celebrated event, but at the end of the day, I was a footnote who’d been lucky to get a shout-out in front of the Seattle crowd we’d lost to and a retirement party back home.
I understood. Hockey was a business, baby.
I cleaned out my locker on a Monday, assured my agent over breakfast on Tuesday that I definitely was not interested in another year with a new team, and by Wednesday, I was ready to move on to my usual summer plans, helping an old friend run a camp for teens in the suburbs.
The drive from Toronto to Detroit took about five hours, which gave me time to regroup, catch up on my favorite history podcasts, and belt out all the wrong lyrics to whatever tunes popped up on Spotify.
One hour into the ride, the Gauls had just ransacked Rome when Darth Vader’s theme song cut the action.
Call from Mom.
Fuck.
Conversations with my mother were always tense. For me, anyway. If it wasn’t for Jimmy and his camp, I wasn’t sure I’d bother coming home anymore.
I blew out a frustrated breath and accepted the call. “Hi, Mom. How’s it goin’?”
“My hip is killing me and my arthritis is acting up,” she replied, hacking a wicked cough before taking a telltale drag of a cigarette.