Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Denny Mellon! How ya doin’, Hotshot?”
Half the lobby turned, twittering curiously. Shit. I’d forgotten I was a minor celebrity.
I waved at the campers and strode toward Jake and our loudmouthed agent, Gary McDermott, lurking in the doorway to the rink. I greeted them with fist bumps and followed them inside, inhaling the intoxicating scent of refrigerated ice. I hadn’t known Gary was going to be in town, but he was a prolific agent and Jake and I were a couple of his recent success stories. Maybe he had business with Jake. Maybe he wanted to talk about New York. If so, I wish he’d called. He knew I hated surprises.
“McD just happened to be in the neighborhood,” Jake reported as if reading my mind.
“That’s true,” the older man commented. “Vinnie mentioned that camp started this week, and you’ll probably notice our PR team around town.”
“One of them shoved a camera in my face while I was eating breakfast at the diner this morning. If I have parsley in my teeth, that’s on you.” Jake clapped my back and inclined his chin. “We should check in with Ronnie and Vin. Good to see you, McD.”
“Hang on, Denny. I need a quick minute of your time.” He waited for Jake to move on before getting straight to the point. “Are you thinking about New York City?”
“Why? Do you have news?”
“They want you, and they’re willing to make it very worth your while. I need fifteen minutes to give you the scoop, including contract buyouts and logistics, but it’s interesting stuff. No…it’s outrageous, Den. Out-fucking-rageous.”
He looked like a kid with a big secret who might literally burst if he had to hold it for another second. I’d never seen him so…giddy. Gary McD was slick and kind of full of himself. I didn’t associate him with barely-contained, childlike enthusiasm.
In the end, he folded like a cheap suit, spouting a string of numbers so insane I was sure I hadn’t heard him correctly.
My mouth dropped. “That’s more than you said on the phone.”
“Oh, hell yeah.” Gary hooted, shoving my chest playfully. “This is why I’m here, man. I had to see your expression in person. Priceless! Listen, we’ll talk this afternoon. Lots to think about and there are a lot of moving pieces, but my God…I’ve been doing this for years, and I’ve never seen anything like this. The press is going to freak out when the news leaks and I’m going to need you in front of the cameras, but it’s okay. We got this. Your rookie season has made you the most sought after player in the league. Congrats, Hotshot. You’re on your way.”
I had no words. Not an uncommon thing for me, and neither was the sudden surge of panic. It didn’t make sense. More money was good, recognition was good, but darker emotions were bubbling to the surface that didn’t feel so great.
And this, right here, was what was wrong with me. I couldn’t be happy like a normal person. The desire and pressure to be the best was countered by deep-seated, ugly guilt.
It was my fault they were gone.
If I hadn’t insisted on taking one more run down the mountain, my parents would both still be here. They’d be happy and together, and life would be different. There’d be no multimillion dollar contracts. There’d be no fans calling my name, kids wearing my jersey, looking for my autograph.
I didn’t deserve this kind of success. I didn’t deserve to be happy at all.
That was wrong. My therapists had helped me work through some of my worst demons, and I knew it was wrong, but my head was a messy place. And there was only one way to lose my ghosts.
Skate.
I glided onto the ice, right foot over left, gaining speed and momentum with each pass.
Skate faster, skate smarter, practice, practice, practice. Again and again and again.
Ten minutes in, I sensed I was being watched. I spun in a circle, my chest heaving as I looked up at the stands at a group of young teenagers, probably thirteen or fourteen years old, staring, eyes wide with admiration.
For me.
I almost glanced over my shoulder to see if they were looking at someone else, but no…it was me. I wanted to scream at them, “I’m not special, I’m not amazing. I’m not a fucking hero.”
The words were stuck…like all the others. I wiped my brow and let out a jagged breath just as a new face stepped up to the boards.
Hank.
He smiled.
That was it. Just a lazy smile, a silent “Hey, how are you?”
But somehow it shook me out of my spiral and grounded me—reminded me to stay in the moment and fucking relax ’cause right this second, everything was good, and I deserved a measure of happiness, and I was enough the way I was.