Page 13 of Puck Love
My agent, McD, had forwarded the headlines with a question mark. I’d responded with an eye-roll emoji. No reply necessary in my opinion. It was immature baiting by an overgrown child publicly pouting ’cause he’d lost. End of story.
Or so I’d thought.
The next day, McD had followed up with a few ideas on how we could use the attention in the media to our advantage. I wasn’t interested. Trinsky was an idiot, and I had no intention of purposely hitching my wagon to his. Was that the right expression?
Not important. I actively avoided Trinsky whenever possible, and I saw no reason to change my policy now.
McD had agreed…which meant he probably wasn’t in Elmwood to see me. He might have business with Denny or maybe Vinnie or—nope…still weird. I made that guy a lot of money. Out of common courtesy alone, McD always let me know if he was coming by even if he was here for someone else.
I pushed the glimmer of irritation aside, determined not to let bullshit I couldn’t control ruin my day.Not today, Satan.
Elmwood was decked to the nines in preparation for tomorrow’s parade for Denny. A Welcome Home banner hung across Main Street, a huge poster of him was plastered on the side of the rink and on the brick façade of the high school, his jersey and number were painted on storefronts, and most of the businesses in town would rename their specials after Denny or offer discounts in his honor.
Pretty cool. My season hadn’t been anywhere near as thrilling as Denny’s, but Elmwood had gone all out for me last month too. The banner, the parade…JC and Nolan had even renamed the diner Jake’s Joint for the day.
I felt undeserving, but no one here agreed. Elmwood was a hockey town that celebrated our famous and semi-famous athletes with hometown-style gratitude. And I had to admit that while the parade and the royalty-for-a-few-days perks were a sweet tradition, the incredible show of support went a long way to healing the sting of loss.
Denny would appreciate this too. Even if it was a bit over-the-top, I mused, snickering at the advert for Denny’s donut holes in the bakery window. Geez, I bet he’d always hoped to have a donut hole named after him.
I waved to Mrs. Turnbull, my third grade teacher. I slapped high fives with a couple of teenagers who played for Smitty on Elmwood High’s hockey team, then crossed the street to the diner and held the door open for my little sister’s best friend, Maggie, and her mom.
Maggie showed me the picture she’d drawn of a hippo, gave me her lunch order and messages for Ella. “Tell her I got pink sneakers. Tell her my headband matches my top. Tell her my dog ate my sock.”
“You got it. See you soon, Maggie.” I fist-bumped the five-year-old chatterbox and said good-bye to her mom, who justhappened to be married to the girl I’d taken to prom our senior year.
Small world. God, I loved this place.
Good mood restored, I stepped inside the diner, smiling at the usual welcoming cacophony. A few fist bumps and handshakes later, I said hi to JC at the counter and made my way to a corner table by the window where McD sat with Vinnie Kiminski and Ronnie Moore.
Vinnie was a handsome big guy in his late forties with broad shoulders and dark hair threaded with silver. He’d been a wrecking ball on the ice in his time, and he still looked kind of fierce. Ronnie, on the other hand, was short, heavyset, bald, and had a perpetually sunny disposition. They were polar opposites looks-wise, but the very best of friends, co-owners of Elmwood Rink and Juniors’ Camp, and brothers-in-law.
Vinnie was married to Nolan Moore, who co-owned the diner and a couple of other restaurants in the Four Forest area with JC Bouchard, a French-Canadian chef and NHL great, Riley Thoreau’s husband.
And like I said, McD had been Vinnie’s agent for decades. There was a lot of connection here, so it wasn’t odd for the three of them to share a meal by any stretch, but the number one thing hockey had taught me over the years was to trust my gut.
These three were up to something.
“Sweet, you’re here.” Vinnie scooted to the window and patted the emerald-green faux-leather-upholstered booth in invitation. “I was just about to text you.”
“What’s up?”
“Rossman is out,” Ronnie reported.
It took me a beat to remember that Rossman was my camp partner for the upcoming charity fund raiser this weekend.
Last year Rossman and I had been paired with two brothers and their three kids on a fishing and hiking adventure for twonights in a tent under the stars. On the final day, we’d met in town for a scrimmage at the El Rink. It had been a fun weekend and a lucrative one for the rink and the camp. The money we’d raised had gone toward scholarships and development programs.
“Oh.”
Vinnie flashed a lopsided smile as he shifted to face me on the bench. “Yeah, but we’ve got a backup idea.”
McD and Ronnie exchanged a look I had no hope of translating. And just like that, I was on high alert again.
I stole a fry from Vinnie’s plate and narrowed my eyes. “What are you?—”
A disturbance at the entrance jolted the attention of everyone in the restaurant. A twitter of recognition and a few gasps of disbelief were followed by a cheer, but before I could crane my neck to see what was going on, a group of teens pounded their fists on their table and chanted, “Trinsky! Trinsky! Trinsky!”
I swiveled on cue, my mouth open in astonishment.