Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Truth was…Nolan was always somewhere in the back of my mind, fluttering like a butterfly I couldn’t decide if I wanted to set free or capture. I hadn’t seen him in seven years now.
Second truth…I’d avoided Elmwood like the plague.
It had been easy to do.
During the holidays, I’d fly my dad to cities with museums he loved—New York City, Philadelphia, Chicago. Or I’d have him join me in Seattle and set him up in style in my box to watch one of my games.
Ronnie came with his dad a few times too…years ago when Mr. M was still alive. But not Nolan, and I understood. We were…complicated.
Maybe it would always be this way between us. If so, I’d have to live with it.
You know, I’d thought I could stay away forever, but the day I announced my plans to retire, I knew it was time to go home. And every day afterward, the pull was stronger than ever. So I bought a house on the outskirts of town through a private trust under an alias and had it furnished, so it would be ready for me. The only person who knew I was coming was Ronnie. I wasn’t sure how long I’d stay, and I didn’t want any fuss.
I just wanted…fuck, I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know what my next step was. I’d had one goal in life, and I’d achieved it.
Now what? My agent had lots of ideas. “You’re still popular. You gotta cash in on your legacy, Kimbo.” That was probably smart, but I had money and I’d made good investments. I didn’t need millions more. I needed a reset and time to think, away from corporate expectations and exes who wanted to swap our celebrity status to further our brands.
The folks I knew in Elmwood didn’t think that way. And the people I was closest to liked me for me.
Except for Nolan.
Yeah…this could be interesting.
2
NOLAN
“You’re kidding.”
My brother shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, unfazed by my deadpan tone and testy stare. “Nope. This little stroke of good luck will do wonders for our enrollment. Not to mention our chances of getting to state next year.”
“Are you high? If so, pass along your happy juice. You’re running a youth program in the boondocks, and our best players just graduated. That dickhead isn’t gonna help you out.”
“Sure, he will.” Ronnie flashed his signature happy-go-lucky grin, scowling a moment later at whatever action was unfolding behind me. “Protect the puck, Anton. Don’t let it get behind you.”
I inhaled deeply and blew out a frustrated breath. “Vinnie is a flake. You don’t need him. You can—”
“I do need him, Nol,” Ronnie intercepted. “I’ve got bills to pay, and I can’t afford to hire another coach. I have too many teenagers running things as it is.”
“You have me too, asshole.”
“And I’m grateful for that, little bro. You know that. But you have a restaurant to run, and I need some new ideas. C’mon…look at that bunch of bananas.”
I crossed my arms and followed his gaze to center ice, where a posse of eight-to-ten-year-old kids was busy hacking and slashing at a puck in a free-for-all. At least this group knew how to skate, I mused, shifting to study my brother.
Ronnie and I were born sixteen months apart and had always been close. We’d looked alike till we were teenagers—brown hair, brown eyes, and dimples. Not so much anymore. I’d gone through a growth spurt in college and sprouted an extra two inches taller than Ronnie’s five foot eleven. I was also thirty pounds thinner and I still had all my hair. He joked that he’d entered middle age early…and in some ways, it was true.
Ronnie was bald by the time he was twenty-nine and had a decent paunch, thanks to his beer and junk food habit. But those deep crevices etched in the corners of his eyes weren’t from years of laughter. No, he’d known real pain—the kind no one walked away from unscathed. The fact that he’d picked up the pieces and rebuilt his life for himself and his daughter was just another indication that Ronnie Moore was a great man, an admirable man.
I already knew that, though. Ronnie was the best brother in the world. I’d been his shadow when we were kids, always tagging along, hoping he wouldn’t kick me out or tattle on me. He rarely did. He’d claimed he liked my company, but I realized later that he was helping out so our folks didn’t worry about me while they were at work.
Days not hanging out with Ronnie and his crew were spent in a booth at the diner with homework or a stack of coloring books and a box of broken crayons or in the kitchen listening to Mel, the chain-smoking fry cook, gripe about picky customers. Boring.