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)
It was my personal quest to make it exceedingly difficult for my new neighbor to totally avoid me.
See, I’d moved in over the weekend—the day after he’d handed me the keys to the Calmezzos’ house. I’d hoped we’d thawed out after our shared chuckle at my expense, but Bryson still kept his distance.
And over the past few days, he’d either ignored me completely or given a brief wave before retreating to his house or his car.
So, I’d retaliated by letting my presence be known. I’d parked on his side of the street, partially blocking his driveway, I’d left a package addressed to me on his doorstep, and yes…I’d borrowed sugar. One teaspoon only.
Bryson had leaned against his door, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he’d given me a thorough once-over. “One teaspoon of sugar?”
“That’s all I need.”
“May I ask why that specific amount?” he’d prodded, looking ridiculously sexy in his usual khaki and oxford shirt uniform.
I’d peered over his shoulder, hoping for a peek inside his house. Bryson’s place was twice as big as the one I’d rented. And three times as nice. The lawn was well-manicured, the hedges were trimmed with military precision, and his windows sparkled. I bet the interior was equally perfect. Not that I was angling for an invite. I respected his wishes to keep things cordial, but that didn’t have to mean boring and serious.
“I made oatmeal, and it’s gross without sugar,” I’d explained.
“Do you want brown sugar?”
“No, I like the regular processed stuff.”
Bryson had frowned. “No one puts granulated sugar on oatmeal.”
“Just a dab. And a smidge of peanut butter.”
“You put peanut butter on oatmeal?” he’d huffed incredulously.
“Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“Thanks for the tip, but I’m never going to try it. Hang tight. I’ll be right back.” Bryson had closed the door before I could step into his foyer. He’d returned with a teaspoon literally overflowing with sugar.
“How will I get this across the street without spilling it?” I’d pondered aloud as he’d handed it over, his palm cupped under the spoon.
“No idea, but I’d like the spoon back.” He’d pointed at my truck. “And please move your vehicle. I need to leave in five minutes, and you’re in the way.”
“No problem.” I’d pulled my keys from my pocket and shuffled along the path to my truck, holding my teaspoon of sugar like I’d lose a million-dollar bet if I spilled even the smallest speck. I’d hopped in my truck, easing it a few inches forward, one hand on the steering wheel, one clutching the spoon. I’d sensed Bryson’s watchful stare all the while. So when I’d stepped out of the truck and pretended to trip, throwing sugar everywhere, I’d had a front-row seat to his unfettered hilarity.
He’d howled with laughter, shaking his head ruefully as he’d closed his door, yelling, “No more sugar at the inn.”
It wasn’t funny. It was plain silly, but I got him. I lived for those fucking “gotcha” moments.
And that was what I loved about coaching.
It was a different kind of gotcha, though. More of an a-ha when a fundamental drill finally results in a newfound skill. Protect your lane, control the gap, start and stop—don’t circle.
My summertime stints at Jimmy’s program hadn’t made me a coaching expert by any means, but I knew a lot about hockey and just enough about teenagers to feel comfortable that I wasn’t in over my head. I skated over to the blue line and tipped my chin in greeting to the serious-looking kid lining up pucks.
“Hey, I’m Smitty. Coach Smitty. You’re Denny?”
The kid snapped a glance my way. He was maybe six one and lean with dark unruly hair, pale skin, and an intense manner in the set of his shoulders and his sharp gaze.
Denny nodded brusquely before pivoting and firing a wrist shot to the upper right corner of the net. I raised a brow and opened my mouth to applaud his precision, but he was obviously in a zone. He kept his focus, adjusting his grip slightly and nailing five pucks in a row to the exact same spot.
I tapped my stick on the ice in wordless praise, then swiped the next puck out of reach and inclined my head in silent invitation. Time to get to work.
I spent ten minutes passing with Denny until Court joined us. We didn’t do anything special—just warmed up and did shooting drills. We grunted, motioned, and communicated with meaningful glances—the way I had with teammates I’d sweated and bled with for years. It was a different story when the other boys arrived.
Court blew his whistle and called a quick intro meeting at center ice.
“Welcome back or welcome if you’re new to the Elmwood Hawks. It’s still summer out there, but we’re lucky to get an early jump on the season, right?” He chuckled at the good-natured groans and gestured toward me. “We have a new head coach, Smitty Paluchek. You have no idea how fortunate you are to have a pro player here, who I have to admit, was better than me.”