Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“Ex?”
“Yeah, Nolan and JC met in Montreal and JC followed him here. It would be a sweet story if that wasn’t my man we were talking about,” he huffed with a laugh.
Nolan and Jean-Claude. Huh.
I couldn’t see it.
But it had taken me a minute or so to get used to the idea that Vinnie, the fiercest D-man in the game, was bisexual and had a male lover. His coming out had rocked the league. It had been all anyone could talk about for a while. I’d found myself answering questions on his behalf as his friend and his successor as captain. Or…co-captain.
Did I know about Kimbo? Did anyone know? Was I okay with it?
Hey, like everyone else, I’d assumed he was with the beautiful model he’d dated for years. Nolan was a shock, but he was a good guy and I liked him. And I loved Vinnie. If Nolan made Vin happy, I was all for it. I’d hoped to prove my allegiance by being the first to sign on to coach their hockey camp and recruit other players too. I’d been vocal in my support of my friend and the LGBTQ community.
Maybe that was why Vinnie had made the effort to help me ride out my concussion away from the media’s eye.
But here’s a truth I’d never admitted to anyone…ever—Vinnie’s revelation had shaken me to my core. Logically, I’d known there had to be a few closeted gay and bi men in the league, but to come out? That took big brass balls. I’d assumed it wasn’t possible. Even in retirement, a prolific player like Vinnie proudly hoisting a bi flag made waves.
I wiped down the equipment, willing my heartbeat to steady. “Is it weird, knowing they were a couple?”
Vinnie scoffed. “Dude. Nolan loves me. And why would I waste precious brain cells worrying about an old relationship? If JC was a jerk, I might not feel that way, but he’s cool and he has a great sense of humor. So does Ivan. I tease JC that they’d make a cute couple just to see his epic eye roll. Cracks me up every time.”
I smiled as if I were in on the joke. “Huh. So…have Jean-Claude and Ivan dated?”
“No, they’re just friends, and as I far as I know, they’re both single—in case you’re interested.” He winked, then cackled like a hyena at my expression, which apparently had slipped from neutral to sheer panic. “Just kidding, man.”
I snapped my towel at his ass and followed Vinnie to the exit, expertly tuning out his weather predictions for the day. Looked like rain and we needed it, blah, blah, blah. My head was stuck in a homoerotic loop, conjuring images of a man’s hands on me, pinning me against a wall or a counter or hell, on the ice. The mere idea of weight and breath and lips made me dizzy. And confused.
What the hell was going on with me?
Are you home? I will deliver your contraband tuna in fifteen minutes. I don’t want to leave it on your porch. Soggy tuna is bad for my reputation.
I chuckled at Jean-Claude’s text and peeked out the kitchen window at the gunmetal gray skies. No rain yet, but it was the topic of conversation everywhere. I’d had Vinnie drop me off at the market rather than home. I’d needed a few things and since I’d been advised not to drive till my headaches subsided, I hoofed it. Not a big deal in a town this small, but my lack of a quick getaway left me at the mercy of idle chatter. And today’s hot news: storm alert.
Stop by any time. I’m home, I typed. Or I can pick it up and save you a trip.
I’m already out and if I hurry, I’ll beat the rain.
Ten minutes later, the sky opened up in a torrential downpour of biblical proportions. Lightning streaked across the horizon, followed by a supersonic boom that rattled the foundation of the old house. I loved it. It reminded me of adrenaline-inducing thunderstorms of my youth and telling ghost stories by candlelight with my family when the power went out.
Geez, if this kept up, I’d need a flashlight or candles or something. Did I have a flashlight?
Knock, knock
Ding-dong
I cut my hunt for foul-weather provisions short and hurried to answer the door for the thoroughly soaked, grumpy-looking chef cradling a plastic-wrapped container.
“Come on in,” I stepped aside to make room for Jean-Claude in the foyer.
“No, no. I’m wet to the bones. I live two blocks away so I walked, thinking I had a few more minutes. No such luck.”
“Yeah, everyone’s talking about it. Seemed to come out of nowhere, though,” I yelled above the din of the element. “Kind of fun.”
“You have strange ideas of fun.”
“True.” I snickered, feeling oddly energized and lighthearted—pretty much the opposite of my guest dripping all over the mat in his drenched long-sleeved tee and jeans.