Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“You remember me.” Ivan set the first-aid kit on the counter and washed his hands.
“There weren’t a hundred kids in our high school class. Of course, I remember you,” I snarked. “And I don’t think I’ll forget you after today.”
He made a yikes face. “I’m sorry.”
“I know, it’s cool. It was an accident.” I sighed at the state of my sneakers.
Shit. I hoped this wasn’t a bad omen. Hockey players were notoriously superstitious, and I wasn’t above worrying that a latte bath was a sign I’d made a wrong move in coming home to Elmwood.
Nah, that was dumb. Up until a few minutes ago, the day had been going pretty well.
I’d spent my morning with NHL greats, Vinnie “Kimbo” Kiminski and Riley “Trunk” Thoreau, assuring them I could be an asset if they were interested in using me as a defensive or conditioning coach for the junior club team. I’d fallen on my sword, told them what had gone down with the Sea Snappers, and even admitted I hadn’t been playing at the top of my game recently, but that I’d hoped to work on honing my skills while I was home.
And here’s the clincher…I’d offered my time in exchange for an introduction to either of their well-connected agents. Neither Kimbo or Trunk had seemed opposed to the idea. That alone was the best news I’d had in ages.
We’d talked for a long time, we’d skated, run through some drills, and joked around like old friends or peers.
But we weren’t friends or peers. These guys were uber-elite athletes. Sure, I’d played professional hockey too—but I’d never sniffed the NHL, and my delusions of grandeur weren’t quite that lofty. I knew I was nowhere near Vinnie or Riley’s level.
Vinnie was a legendary D-man who’d retired a few years ago and returned home to Elmwood. I’d grown up watching him here at the rink and then on TV when he was drafted to the pros. I’d dreamed of having a career like his. That hadn’t quite panned out, but I could still learn a lot from him. And Riley had retired two years ago and settled in Elmwood to be with his boyfriend, JC, and help Vinnie run the club program at the rink with Ronnie, Vinnie’s best friend and now brother-in-law.
Riley had also joined the local education and athletic committees and had successfully spearheaded an effort to open a high school in Elmwood. They were expected to break ground in springtime on a patch of land adjacent to the old Catholic church and the new sports center. As a kid who’d made the daily trek to Pinecrest for high school, I was thrilled for Elmwood.
The entire town was bustling with revitalized energy. You could feel it everywhere—the revamped parks, remodeled storefronts, and hipster shops…like Rise and Grind. You know, the coffee shop owned by the guy who’d just dumped five lattes all the fuck over me.
And that was exactly how I should have expected my day to go—with the emo kid I knew in high school announcing to my new bosses that my dick was on fire.
I downplayed the situation and convinced everyone I just needed to go home, shower, and change. Everyone except Ivan, who’d insisted on following me into the men’s room with a fucking first-aid kit.
I tugged my sticky, wet pullover from my chest and yanked it over my head with my T-shirt, frowning when he held up a jar of Vaseline. “What’s that for?”
“Burns. For your penis.”
“What the fuck?”
“I just googled it and apparently you should keep your penis moist, which sounds very gross now that I’ve said it out loud. But just…you know, rub some on your chest and your…” He gestured at my crotch. “Penis.”
“Please stop saying penis,” I grumbled irritably, uncapping the Vaseline. “How do I do this?”
“Just…rub it in. I’ll do it.” Ivan plucked the small jar from me and exhaled, blowing his cheeks out theatrically. “Stay still and try to relax.”
“I can’t relax. Fuck the Vaseline. I just want to get out of here and take a cold shower.”
“I understand. I’m sure you’re uncomfortable, but you’ll be glad you did this to soothe your…” He met my gaze and blushed. “…sensitive body part that starts with a P. I’ll go fast. Do you have an extra shirt with you?”
“Yeah, in my car.” I bit my lip and stared up at the fluorescent bathroom lighting, wincing at the feel of the cold jelly-like gunk on my chest. “Hey, not so much.”
“Sorry, but you’re going to wash it off later, so it’s fine.”
“Easy for you to say. Your junk isn’t on fire,” I groused.
“No, but my shoes are a mess, and I’m beyond mortified that a janitor is out there cleaning up the gallon’s worth of coffee I dumped all over the damn place in front of the town’s hockey heroes. I’m going to have to give everyone free lattes for a week.” He shoved the jar at me. “Here. You can take care of your own…willy.”