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)
I opened and closed my mouth, flabbergasted. There really wasn’t a nice way to say “How and why and what the hell are these people thinking? This rink is a dump,” so I raked my teeth over my bottom lip to bide myself a few seconds, and finally came up with, “That’s…amazing.”
“I know,” Ronnie agreed. “Those kids graduated and the new bunch is green as can be, which has put me in a bit of a pickle. I don’t have the man or womanpower to devote to the older kids. My coaching staff has been me, Nolan, Gavin, and Chick Connery. Gavin is outta here in August, Chick is—”
“A dinosaur,” I finished. “He has to be eighty.”
“Seventy-five and he’s spry as ever, but I could use some help,” he said, somewhat tentatively…as if he thought I might refuse.
I kicked his shoe and grinned. “You know I’m in.”
Ronnie’s eyes lit up. “Yeah?”
“Of course. I’m here for you, man. Just tell me how much you need.”
“No more than two hours a couple of days a week, Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, and every other Saturday for games. Or whatever time you can spare. Nolan stepped in to help with the juniors while I concentrate on the younger kids, but it’s temp—”
“Hold up. I meant…how much money do you need? I can transfer whatever you need by tomorrow.”
“That’s generous of you, but I was hoping I could talk you into coaching the juniors,” Ronnie explained, looking slightly chagrined.
“Coach?” I repeated incredulously. “Coach kids? Dude, take my money.”
Ronnie shook his head. “No. Look, I know this is a big ask, but…your name will give the program a shot of life and some cred so we don’t lose customers to programs with nicer facilities.”
“I have a better solution…take the money and remodel this place.”
“I can do more with a little of your time than more of your money.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I huffed.
“I assure you, it’s true,” he replied. “Hockey Rule Number One—”
“Put the puck in the net.”
“Okay, Rule Number Two…the long game is more important than the short one. I want to build this place into something special again. The way it was when we were younger.” He punched my biceps playfully. “C’mon, what’re you gonna do all summer? Go to some tropical resort, get a tan, and forget how to play hockey?”
“I will never forget how to play hockey,” I deadpanned.
“That’s what they say,” Ronnie singsonged. He sobered in a flash and looked away. “Hey, I don’t mean to pressure you. Just think about it. You can let me know at Sunday dinner at my mom’s. I told her I’d invite you and that I wouldn’t take no for an answer. So you have to come…or call her and break her heart yourself.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good.”
I pointed at his sneakers and lifted my bag. “Get your skates on. Let’s play.”
We tore across the ice, testing each other’s speed as we passed, and took shots on an open goal. We hadn’t played at the same level in almost two decades, but we still had fun.
We always had.
The Moore brothers were my original teammates. We used to challenge Nick Solomon and his cousins to scrimmages and shootouts before we really understood the rules of play. With skates, sticks, and a slab of ice, we’d had everything our hearts desired. All winter long, we’d sweat through multiple layers with runny noses and pink cheeks from the cold, skating till our blades were dull and our legs felt wobbly. Or until somebody’s parent called us in for the night.
Those were good memories, and I didn’t want to fuck them up by making new bad ones.
Coaching? Shit. That would never end well.
But maybe…maybe this was the angle I needed to patch things up with Nolan. Maybe Ronnie had orchestrated this as a ploy for that very reason.
I wanted that.
If Nolan did.
If he didn’t, that was cool too. I was used to people hating me—irate fans, thwarted opponents, ex-girlfriends. I could deal with Nolan’s scorn for another fifty or sixty years.
Or maybe it was an eternal sentence. Maybe he’d haunt me in the afterlife. Or maybe we’d been taking turns haunting each other for centuries and—okay, that was dumb.
This was the kind of stuff I spun over lately, though. I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I ever hoped to have any peace, I had to make things right with Nolan.
Thirty-six hours later, I was still thinking about him. Not good for my sanity.
I slipped my running shoes on at an ungodly hour, adjusted the volume on a Foo Fighters classic, and jogged down the dirt road leading into town, hoping a little exercise would help purge him from my mind and clear my head. Not sure it helped, ’cause everything about this place held a memory tied to Nolan Moore.
Like the three-hundred-year-old giant elm that divided Elmwood from Fallbrook. We’d perch on sturdy branches with our parents’ binoculars and pretend we were pirates. We couldn’t see shit through the leaves, but we’d make up stories about ghost sightings and zombies that scared us senseless.