Page 12 of Puck Love

Asummer breeze in Elmwood felt like a warm hug. It never got stiflingly hot or uncomfortable the way it did in bigger cities. And June was the best. There were no lines at Henderson’s Bakery or at Rise and Grind, and usually no waiting for a table at the diner. Bliss.

Of course, that would all change within a week when the hockey community descendeden massefor Juniors Camp. But after six weeks of rest and relaxation, I was ready for it. In fact, I looked forward to trading the natural beauty of the Four Forest area for long days in a refrigerated rink, wrangling teenagers with big hockey dreams.

A guy could only take so much quiet, right?

I smiled at the little kids skipping around the fountain in front of Town Hall and called out a greeting to their dad, a big bald dude who was sprawled on a nearby bench, licking his ice cream cone with purpose.

“Yo, Gino! Chocolate chip?”

He raised his cone in a salute. “It’s the only way to go.”

“You know it.” I gave a thumbs-up and stopped to chat for a minute.

Gino Miller had sat one seat ahead of me in every classroom between first and eighth grade and in homeroom throughout high school, where the teachers had been determined to organize the students alphabetically. I’d liked Gino, but to be perfectly honest, I’d hated sitting next to him. You know that kid who always peeked at your test and wanted to know if he could copy your homework? Yeah…that was Gino.

We were friendly but never besties. I hadn’t been cool enough then, and I totally understood. Gino had been the funniest kid in class—charming, self-effacing, and quick with a comeback or a believable excuse for why he hadn’t turned in a math assignment. Comparatively speaking, I’d been…serious.

There was no way I’d have forgotten my homework. And not because my parents had been overly strict. If anything, I’d been hard on myself. I’d had lofty goals, and according to my dad, the only way to make anything happen was to work for it. Dad had also been a big fan of having a backup plan.

A, I’d wanted to play hockey in the NHL. B, play hockey in the AHL. And C—a very distant C—I’d wanted to invent a revolutionary sports drink or design robots. Or…maybe look into being an astronaut.

Plans A and B came through. I’d played professional hockey for twelve seasons, had traveled the world, and…I’d even won the Stanley Cup. Greatest job ever! I loved it and I’d never regretted the time, energy, or sacrifices I’d made along the way.

However, I’d really needed time off after this past season had ended. I’d been strung out, physically beat up, mentally drained, and totally exhausted. What a difference a few weeks made.

Seriously.

Six weeks ago, I would have tipped my ball cap in a wimpy greeting and hurried on, hoping to avoid unwanted conversation with former classmates I’d fallen out of touch with. Like Gino. He’d married the head cheerleader at Pinecrest High, had threechildren, and had never lived anywhere outside of the Four Forest area. We had less in common now than we had twenty years ago.

Not only was I single, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been on a real date. And kids definitely weren’t on my radar. But Gino was a nice guy, his kids were cute, the sun was shining, and I was in a great mood for no reason in particular.

He told me about the new pizza his kids wanted to debut on the menu this summer. Something with piles of pepperoni and Ritz crackers. I snickered at his horrified expression.

“Disgusting, am I right?” He shook his head in mock despair.

“Very. But I think Nathan would be all over that.” True statement. My little brother liked anything on pizza…as long as it wasn’t green.

Gino narrowed his eyes. “Why do I think Nathan gave Tommy that bright idea?”

I chuckled, raising my hands in surrender as I stepped aside. “Take that up with Smitty and my dad. Later. I’m gonna grab something to eat at the diner and?—”

“Yeah, I saw your big-shot manager roll into town in a sweet convertible. Put in a good word for my nephew, Emmett. He’ll be a senior in the fall and…you know Emmett. He’s got a killer snap shot. It might not get him into the NHL, but if he had the right agent, anything could happen.”

Oh…right. I’d almost forgotten that some folks thought I had secret special insider info to fast-track anyone with a smidge of talent into the pros.

I didn’t, but I gave a thumbs-up, and froze.

“Wait. My agent?”

Gino brushed his meaty palms on his shorts and stood, inclining his chin in the general direction of the diner. “I think that was him. Mr. Slick, hair combed back, fancy suit, shiny shoes…”

“Sounds like McD. See ya, Gino.”

I checked my messages as I continued up Main Street. My social media feed had been filled with crap about my shiny leather jacket sabotage for days.Fucking Trinsky. Most of it was good-natured ribbing, but there were always a few superfans looking for a scapegoat, so the “Milligan sucks” campaign hadn’t really surprised me.

But I’d wondered what had possessed Trinsky to throw my name out during a podcast fluff piece. Sure, we kind of famously didn’t get along, but blaming his lack of concentration at a pivotal game seven on a spectator—you know, the guy snacking on popcorn next to his kid brother and sisters—was a stretch.

What a fucknut.