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)
Nah, no chance. Everything from the worn rubber mats in front of the rink gates to the giant digital clock gifted by the Elmwood Eagles parent booster group, circa 1967, was the same as it was when I’d left home nineteen years ago.
Nothing had changed. Not here or anywhere in town.
I figured my dad would have mentioned something new. Then again, maybe not. It took a lot to get my father’s attention, which made him a terrible source of information. I stayed in touch with Ronnie and a couple of other friends, but it wouldn’t have occurred to me to ask if the yellow light on Monroe was still too long or if Henderson’s Bakery still made those mouthwatering maple cookies.
Fuck, I hoped so, but I couldn’t figure out why it mattered. It was as if I needed assurance that this slice of my childhood was exactly as I’d left it—a little innocent and full of hope. And for the most part, it was. However, the unrelenting waves of nostalgia took me by surprise.
I’d been hit by the memory bus the moment I crossed the county line. And the closer I got to home, the stronger it got. But the biggest kick in the gut by far was Elmwood Ice. It wasn’t much to look at, but this was my Mecca. I could have sworn I heard a voice welcoming me home.
“Mr. Kiminski?”
I shook off the reverie and pasted a smile on my face as I stepped up to the reception desk with my hand outstretched, knocking the strap off my shoulder. “Hi, there. Just Vinnie.”
The teenage girl blinked and bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. “H-h-hi. I’m, um—it’s nice to meet you, sir. Ronnie—I mean, Mr. Moore is expecting you.”
My grin widened. I was used to the occasional tongue-tied hockey fan recognizing me, but for some reason, it felt a little sweeter in my hometown. And Mr. Moore? I wanted to tell her the only Mr. Moore I knew was Ronnie and Nolan’s dad, but I caught myself.
Mr. M had passed away years ago, and while nothing in Elmwood had changed on the surface, everything was different now.
“Cool. Thank you…what was your name?”
“Erica. Erica Williams.”
“Oh, yeah? Any relation to Kirby Williams?”
“He’s my dad,” she squeaked.
Holy crap. How was that possible? Was I really old enough that my peers had teenage kids? Yeah, okay. Math wasn’t my thing, but I knew the answer to that one.
“No kidding?” I scratched my nape. “I played hockey on the juniors team with your dad.”
Her smile softened to something less manic. “He might have mentioned that…four or five hundred times.”
I chuckled. “Tell him I said hi.”
Erica nodded like a puppet. “I will. Um, I c-can escort you inside if you’d like.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I know the way,” I assured her. “Have a good one.”
“You too, Mr. Kimin—Vinnie.”
I gave her a thumbs-up and turned toward the visitors’ entrance to the rink, my fingers looped around the strap of my bag.
The delicious blast of artificial ice was the truest welcome yet. I sucked in a lungful of refrigerated air as I made my way to the players’ bench, where a familiar figure sat with his head bent over a whiteboard, drawing out plays with a teenage boy.
“Yo, is that Ronnie Mo?” I called out.
Ronnie started, snapping his head in my direction. A wicked grin split his face in two a moment later. “Well, look who’s here.”
I dropped my bag on the bench and opened my arms wide. “Bring it in, man.”
He shoved the whiteboard at the teenager and flew at me, wrapping me in a tight Moore-style bear hug.
The Moores were the most effusively affectionate people I’d ever known. Their door was always open, their fridge and pantry always stocked for stray friends. So different than the quiet, drafty house where Dad and I had lived a few blocks away. Ours was bigger and our neighborhood was nicer, but I’d liked the Moores’ house better.
Mr. and Mrs. Moore had always made me feel as though I were an honorary family member. They’d made room for me at their table, shared their food, their old skates and cold weather gear, invited me fishing, camping, to the movies… No doubt they’d felt sorry for me, but I didn’t care. I’d gladly accepted their wholesome brand of charity. It had been chaotic and noisy but a hell of a lot cheerier than my house.
“God, it is great to see you,” Ronnie enthused, blinking back tears as he stepped aside. My smile dipped then slipped into place again when he introduced the wide-eyed young man with a thick shock of auburn hair next to him. “Vin Kiminski, this is Gavin Lockey. He’s my assistant this summer. He’s playing for Holy Cross in the fall.”
“No kidding? Holy Cross has a great program. Congrats,” I replied, shaking Gavin’s hand.