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TRINSKY

G ame seven of the Stanley Cup.

We were tied two apiece, one minute and fifty seconds on the clock. The roof of the arena was rattling. Denver’s fans wanted this win as much as we did. Sure, Ontario was good, but we were better. One more lamplighter to seal the deal.

Denny glided along the perimeter, the puck glued to the edge of his stick. He was pure ice, no expression on his face. His focus was laser sharp as he signaled for me to shift. This was it.

I skated into the lane, took the puck to mid-rink, and passed it to Minorsk. I closed in, creating a screen while Denny moved in for the kill.

We had this. I could feel it. The Denver Condors were about to win the fucking Stanley Cup…again.

All we needed was for Minorsk to sling the puck to Mellon, who’d bury it for the fucking win. The crowd would go nuts, but we’d stay in the moment, playing keep away till the buzzer ran out.

I peeked at the clock. One minute, forty seconds, and…

And suddenly, time stopped.

I was on a cloud hovering like a ghost—here and a hundred percent present, yet blissfully above it all. How was this my life? How did I get here? Did I really belong, or was someone finally going to rat me out as an impostor?

I spotted Denny Mellon’s husband, Hank, sitting with NHL legends Vinnie Kiminski, Riley Thoreau, and their husbands, Nolan and JC. Denny’s best friend, Mary-Kate, was there too with a couple of the crew from Elmwood High. It was pretty freaking cool that so many people had made the trek from Vermont to support Denny. I couldn’t see Smitty, but I knew his high school coach had to be here too along with his husband, Bryson, and probably?—

Jake.

Yep, there he was. Jake fucking Milligan.

Heat and the usual rush of animosity boiled under my skin, but I quickly let it go. Hey, I could afford to be magnanimous. I was seconds away from winning the cup, not Jake. Not that I wanted to lord it over the asshole, but—okay, maybe I did.

Yeah, I’d been in his shoes a few times, and I knew it sucked to be a spectator when everything in you wanted to be on the ice.

He looked good. A golden boy with intense eyes, edgy energy, a shiny leather jacket, and?—

What the fuck?

I tore my gaze away, scanning the stands. La Marche’s wife was doing her signature ear-piercing whistle, Minorsk’s kids were waving their arms and jumping like kangaroos, Collaran’s dad was holding a sign. Okay, fine. I’d admit, I was a teensy, tiny bit bummed I didn’t have a cheering section of my own.

I wished Eddie were here. I wished my mom could handle big lights and noise. It would have been nice to have people I cared about show up for me. I supposed I could count the girl I’d broken up with last month, who was probably in my seats taking selfies. Not the same, but hey, the fans loved me and that was more than enough.

’Cause let’s be real, this was everything I’d ever dreamed of.

This, right here, right now. The lights, the music, the voracious fans, and the clock ticking down the final moments to victory.

It was undefinable. The best damn thing ever.

Wait.

We were still tied, and Minorsk still had the damn puck. What was he doing? I glanced at Denny and winced. Shit . He had two defenders on him now. The play was fucked. I raised my stick and motioned for Minorsk to pass to me just as Ontario’s star forward swooped in, stole the puck, and raced to our goal on a breakaway.

Ontario scored.

Fifty seconds later, it was over.

We’d fucking lost.

Here’s the thing—I wasn’t a maudlin dude. No way. Not my style.

I brought the party, I brought the fun.

Fans could count on silly on-ice shenanigans and wild stories about me in the media. I was the guy who showed up in a flashy car, wearing a sparkly designer suit no one in their right mind would be caught dead in with a gorgeous model on my arm. You know the type—blond hair to her ass, eyelashes for days, and a smile that never reached her eyes.

Was that the real me? Well…I liked attention, but I understood that flash without substance could turn you into a joke, and I was no one’s fucking joke. I could be a clown as long as I controlled the narrative.

I didn’t know how to spin the narrative of our Stanley Cup loss. For some reason, I was having a hard time grappling with major disappointment. I was usually better at finding a silver lining, but damn, I felt really fucking blue.

I’d said all the right things to the press, and I’d been pretty tame…for me. Serious, even.

“We’re bummed. We wanted this for Denver, for our fans. We fought hard and it’s tough to come up short, but we’ll be back stronger than ever next season.”

That should have been it.

But the reporter nodded her head in solemn agreement and asked, “Is there anything you wished you could have done differently?”

Oh, fuck. What a loaded question.

Yeah, I wanted to know if Ontario had out-skated us or if they’d just gotten lucky. I wanted to know if I could have slowed the play. And I wanted to know why Minorsk hadn’t passed the fucking puck.

Of course, those tapes would be analyzed to death in the days ahead. And even though I was curious about Minorsk’s timing, I’d never throw a teammate under the bus. Besides, I hadn’t forgotten that my own head had been in the clouds, daydreaming about a win that hadn’t happened and…Jake Milligan.

I mean…what the actual fuck?

I’d never admit that in a million years. No way.

Not that it mattered. I knew the truth. And it weirded me out that I remembered Jake Milligan’s leather jacket and that I’d noticed that his hair was shorter, yet I honestly couldn’t recall the moment before they’d stripped the puck from us. I’d lost a precious nanosecond on the ice because of that asshole.

Mind blown.

It might sound totally bananas, but I swore somehow, some way, that it was Jake’s fault. Like the guy had pushed a pin into a homemade voodoo doll that looked a lot like yours truly.

Too wacky a theory to voice to a reporter on live TV. Then again, Jake was someone I would happily roll under a bus.

Don’t worry. I stuck to the standard company line. We’d done everything we could, and we were disappointed that it wasn’t enough. End of story.

Except…

I couldn’t stop thinking that Jake had fucked up my win.

Random niggling thoughts popped up in the shower or while I was making coffee or running on the treadmill. Was this a curse? Had Jake messed with my mojo on purpose? Was that even possible?

Illogical, paranoid, unreasonable…yeah, yeah, on some level, I knew I was guilty of assigning blame by association or some shit, but I could not let it go. It was as if I were being haunted by someone who was alive and well.

I was supposed to be celebrating a great season, and sure…I did that, but drunk and high me hated Jake more than sober me did. That asshole had even ruined partying.

Needless to say, the seed was sown.

A week after the big L, my agent lined up an interview for me on a popular podcast hosted by two retired hockey players who’d been teammates of NHL legend Vinnie Kiminski. Fun fact: Vinnie was from the same small town in Vermont as my nemesis. Skeeter and Shawn were very familiar with Vinnie’s internationally renowned Elmwood juniors camp, and they seemed to keep track of the pros who’d coached for Vinnie and his team over the years.

Like me…and Jake.

And they knew we didn’t get along. That wasn’t a secret, but it also wasn’t newsworthy. Not everyone was your buddy, right?

Yeah, well, apparently, the key to a successful podcast was to create a story out of thin air and provoke your gullible, pot-stirring guest into saying crazy shit for the entertainment of the subscribers. And there was no one more primed and ready to deliver the goods than me.

“Take us through that last minute, Trinsky. What was going through your head?” Skeeter prompted.

I adjusted my headphones. “Score.”

They chuckled as if that were the funniest quip ever.

“No, really,” Skeeter chided. “Conference championship fifteen years ago, we were up one with two minutes to go in the third period and all I could think was, ‘I want hot chicken wings…like now.’”

More laughter. And this time, I joined in.

“It was bacon for me. Bacon cheeseburger, hold the onions, double fries. Maybe I was subconsciously hungry.” I waited for their bout of hilarity to pass and added, “I’m kidding. I was focused. It’s just that—nah, never mind.”

“None of that. Let it all out,” Shawn prodded.

“What was it? Milligan was in your head, huh?” Skeeter joked.

Wow, good one, Skeeter.

Just like that, I was on the ice in the final minute of that third period distracted by Jake’s hair and his jacket and— Ugh. Fuck this. You know what? They wanted a little something extra to tantalize their listeners.…I could definitely play this game.

A cartoon angel and a devil each sat on a shoulder, duking it out.

Don’t do it, Trinsky.

Oh, fuck that noise. Get it off your chest.

Guess who I listened to?

Easy decision. I didn’t want to talk about losing anymore. The goofball in me wanted to get into the spirit of things and joke around with these guys. I wanted to shake off my frustration and pent-up anger, and just have a laugh.

I eyed the veteran players across the table and leaned into my microphone.

“Okay, fine. There was this glare from the stands and it was driving me nuts. It was a laser or a beacon. I passed the puck, took a peek, and get this…” I paused, my comedic timing on point. “It turned out to be Jake Milligan’s shiny leather jacket.”

Not very funny, I know. But to a couple of hungry podcasters hoping to spin any line into a catch phrase, it was money. Skeeter and Shawn guffawed and as I’d sort of figured, they turned the shiny leather jacket moment into a saga.

“Milligan has it in for you!”

“The feud lives! Milligan scored on that one. Enemy brought down by cowhide.”

It was a tad much, but it was also vaguely humorous. And hopefully, therapeutic.

I walked out of their recording studio feeling lighter than I had in days, and the throng of fans waiting for autographs and selfies pumped me up. Losing had sucked, but it was a temporary setback. I was ready to move on.

Thank you, Jake fucking Milligan.

“Trinsky-Milligan feud is on!” – ESPN

“Denver’s charismatic forward suggests Stanley Cup subterfuge!” – The Denver Post

“Is a rival’s shiny leather jacket to blame for Denver’s loss to Ontario?” – The Hockey News

I snickered as the headlines rolled in, each one more ridiculous than the last. Hashtag Shiny Jacket was trending, some genius social media influencer made up a song that had gone viral, and my jersey was selling like hotcakes.

Jake’s was too, but…whatever.

It was goofy, and to most of the world, it was just good, clean fun.

My agent, however, couldn’t decide if I was secretly a marketing guru or a loose cannon.

“I’m popping antacids like M&M’s here, Trinsky,” Marty groused in a thick Long Island accent. “Your contract is up for renewal. Denver loves you and you wanna stay, but you’re gonna cost them a pretty penny. You gotta play nice to get everything on your wish list. There’s a posse of fresh talent coming up, and you know it. They can get two good rookies for half of what you earn.”

I scowled at my cell. “Oh, c’mon, they love me.”

“Business first, baby. Denver doesn’t like press they don’t control. You oughta know that by now. And don’t get me started on Milligan. Christ, his agent’s office has left me five messages this morning.”

“Overreact much?” I scrolled my iPad in dismay, amused and baffled, and…very aware that my silly shot might have instigated a war. Uh-oh. “It was a joke.”

“Do me a favor and give up the comedian gig. You suck at it.”

“Ouch.”

“I mean it. Go on vacation like your teammates and get out of the limelight for a few months, eh? While you’re at it, get your ex-girlfriend to quit posting shirtless pics of you in compromising poses.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Keep your trap shut, have a quiet summer, and let me work on your fuckin’ contract, got it?”

“Got it.”

I hung up with Marty and braved a peek at Chandra’s Instagram page.

Shit .

Sure enough, there were photos of us from last summer sprinkled in with newer selfies from after one of our games that I’d thought were harmless. We’d agreed to be friends, but friends didn’t lick each other’s tonsils and share it with the world.

Now, that might be awkward. No one wanted to have the breakup conversation twice. I wrinkled my nose and blew out an exasperated breath just as my cell vibrated.

“Denny. How’s it hangin’?”

“Low,” he answered. “Are you home?”

“Yeah, but I?—”

“I’m here. Buzz me in.”

A few minutes later, Denny Mellon showed up at my door in full disguise—sunglasses, ball cap, dark tee, and jeans.

“Is that really you?” I squealed like a teenage fanboy. “Denny? Denny Mellon?”

He whipped his glasses off and rolled his eyes, pushing past me into the foyer. “Fuck off.”

“Yes, sir.” I snickered as I locked the door behind him.

Sometimes the celebrity angle of our job still boggled my mind. Neither of us traveled around town with an entourage, but we had to be mindful of the possibility of being stopped by fans for selfies and autographs. If time wasn’t an issue, it was fun to meet the folks who bought our jerseys and screamed at their TV screens on our behalf.

One could argue that it was worse for Denny than me. He was the highest scorer and one of the most popular players in the NHL. He was also the youngest out-and-proud bisexual man…who also happened to be married to a man. And his husband, Hank, was a fuckin’ cowboy from Colorado. So yeah, Denver loved this guy.

The entire league did. They were bonkers for Mellon and protective of him in a way that was unprecedented. Ten years ago, a bi or gay professional athlete would have had a tougher time in the public eye. Former players who’d come out—like Vinnie Kiminski, Riley Thoreau, Court Henderson, and Smitty Paluchek—had changed the game.

No, that didn’t mean the world was suddenly rainbow friendly everywhere. I knew for a fact that Denny still dealt with his share of prejudiced dickwads, but he had the support of our team, the organization, the city, and seemingly, most of the country.

As for me, if this were a popularity contest, I’d rank number two with Condor fans. I offset Denny’s serious nature with goofy antics, and I liked to think that my unwavering support for him was a positive influence. Call me ridiculous, showy, and full of myself, but you don’t fuckin’ mess with my friend.

It wasn’t an act. I loved Denny like a second brother. He was an extremely gifted and generous athlete. He worked hard, and he expected his teammates to do the same. However, if anyone was struggling with a shot or going through a slump, Denny was the first one to step up and offer to help. His ability to score at will paired with his trademark intensity and unwavering patience made him the perfect captain.

And a great friend.

My very good friend looked like he wanted to hurt me, though. If this was about Jake?—

“Why is ‘Trinsky-Milligan Feud’ trending?”

Oh, come on.

“How should I?—”

“Nope.” Denny held up a hand, grunting as he headed toward the great room. “Don’t answer. I know this one. You’re still pissed about losing, and you thought throwing your favorite scapegoat to the wolves would be fun.”

I raked my fingers through my hair and mulled over the accusation. “Okay, fine. That sounds about right. Lighten up, Mellon. It was a joke, and the fact that it has legs at all just means it’s a really slow news cycle. Give it another hour. I betcha a baseball player will get caught making out with a porn star, and my hashtag moment will fade in the wind. Want something to drink?”

He opened his mouth as if to respond and pointed at my living area. “Did you have a party or something? Your place is a mess.”

Afternoon sunlight pierced through the open blinds, ricocheting off the hardwood floors and marble countertops, illuminating the space with a hazy sheen. The beer bottles and empty glasses covering the smudged glass coffee table kind of ruined the peaceful effect the designer had been going for. So did the pillows strewn on the floor and the topsy-turvy sofa cushions that looked as if they’d been used to construct a fort.

I liked to watch TV on the floor. Sue me. As for the bottle collection…I guessed I’d forgotten to throw those away. Hey, it happened. I supposed the debris was a jarring contrast to the sophisticated decor. A designer had asked what I liked, and all I’d been able to come up with was ocean, ice, and the color blue. She’d taken my minimal cues and transformed my condo into something straight out of a fancy magazine.

A huge comfy sectional floated on a blue-patterned rug in front of a mega flat-screen and a wall of windows with views of the river and the Rocky Mountains. It was gorgeous. As in way too nice for me. A housekeeper came by twice a week and yes, she was well compensated.

I grabbed a few empty bottles and tsked. “Hey, I don’t come into your house and gripe about how fucking clean it is all the time.”

Denny helped himself to a water bottle, shaking his head as he uncapped it. “Actually I think you do.”

“That’s ’cause it’s weird to never have a single crumb on your counter. Everyone agrees.”

I dumped the trash into the recycle bin then plucked Denny’s water from his hands and guzzled half of it…just to bug him.

“Asshole.” He punched my biceps and stepped on my foot on his way to get a replacement.

“Maybe, but?—”

“Hang on. I don’t care about your epically sloppy condo. We have a problem, and I need your help fixing it.”

“A problem.” I widened my eyes and flopped onto the nearest barstool. My cell flashed with an incoming call from Marty. I turned it over and gave Denny my full attention. “Sounds dramatic. This can’t be about the Hashtag Shiny Jacket moment.”

“No. Well…yes and no.” Denny leaned against the island, his expression unreadable but definitely set to serious. He was a good-looking guy with wavy raven hair and hazel eyes, and he rocked an intense vibe better than anyone I’d ever met. “Your timing sucks. I need to ask you a favor, and that little jab at Jake has just made this very fucking awkward.”

“What kind of favor?”

“We’re down a coach for the Elmwood charity camping trip. Rossman’s daughter had emergency surgery to remove her appendix yesterday. She’s going to be fine, but he doesn’t want to leave home. Totally understandable. I know you’re planning to be in LA in July to see your family before you come to Vermont for Juniors Camp, so the timing might work. I hate to ask, but?—”

I waved him off. “Of course I’ll do it. I love camping.”

Denny smiled. “Cool. Thank you. I’ll tell Vinnie you’re in. He’ll be relieved.”

“Well, that was easy. And now you’re going to tell me Jake will there.” I spared him an unimpressed snort. “Who cares? We successfully avoid each other every year at camp. It’s not a problem.”

“Uh…well, I don’t think it’ll be that simple to?—”

I scoffed. “Trust me, it is that simple. So…when do you need me?”

“This weekend.”

“That’s soon.”

“Well, the parade is on Saturday, and the coaches’ charity camping expedition starts Sunday. This is the second year of this particular fund raiser where parents and teens have an adventure with their favorite players. We’ll take them to the lake and hike the forest between Elmwood, Pinecrest, and Wood Hollow. Hank has arranged horseback riding activities too. Oh, and JC and Nolan have donated meals from the diner and limitless coffee, hot chocolates, and pastries from Ivan and Court at Rise and Grind.”

I beamed and threw my arms open. “Are you kidding me? Sign me the fuck up! I’m insulted I wasn’t on the original roster. This is so up my alley, it isn’t even funny. I’m packing my bag now and?—”

“Rossman’s camp partner is Jake,” Denny intercepted.

Silence.

I grimaced. “Well, switch it.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean? It hasn’t even happened yet. Of course you can.”

He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled theatrically. “Look, this is a publicity event too. Jake and I have the same agent… Gary McDermott, who has been trying to get a hold of your agent and?—”

“Why?”

“Because you and Jake at the same fund raiser with the kids and parents is nice and all, but putting you together to survive in the forest gives your feud a charitable edge. It’s good for Elmwood, good for the camp, good for the NHL, and maybe good for your careers.”

I was speechless. I sat with my mouth open for a full minute before shaking my head.

“Are you kidding? He’ll kill me. Or I’ll kill him. How is that good for the league?”

Denny shrugged. “Hey, this isn’t my idea. But…it’s sort of my fault that it snowballed into a media circus.”

“How? What did you do?”

He bit his lower lip sheepishly. “Vinnie told me about Rossman, and I suggested you. I didn’t realize he was paired with Jake. Vinnie laughed and said it would be a bloodbath. And great for business. He contacted McD, who’s his old agent too…and the rest is history. I’m here to give you the heads-up. Obviously, you can decline, but…McD will probably find a way to make that into a social media win for Jake. I’m assuming your agent will agree that it’s a good move too. Talk to him, and let me know what you decide.”

I rubbed my hand over my scruffy jaw.

“Bonding with the enemy for publicity. This is like a bad episode of Survivor in the making.”

Denny quirked a brow. “If it’s a hard pass for you, I can make some calls and find a replacement.”

“Yeah, right.” I snorted derisively. “I get the impression I don’t have much of a choice.”

“You started this, dumbshit. You’re Mr. Hashtag Shiny Jacket,” he huffed, chuckling when I flipped him off. “C’mon, seventy-two hours in Elmwood isn’t so bad. You love Elmwood. And there are some good perks…Grams will make you pancakes, JC said he’d throw in complementary poutine whenever you want it, and I’ll hook you up with a private jet in and out of Burlington.”

“ Grrr .”

Denny squeezed my shoulder and straightened. “I really had no clue this was a powder-keg situation. Sorry it blew up so fast. I can work on an alternate, but just…think about it and let me know soon. We’re running out of time.”

I sighed heavily. “I’ll talk to Marty.”

“Cool.”

“ Hmph . If I magically end up in Elmwood this weekend, I’m gonna need stacks on stacks of pancakes and poutine out the wazoo.”

He chuckled. “That can be arranged. Thanks, Mase.”

Damn, Mellon only called me by my first name when he was at his most serious and sincere. My slight nod of acknowledgment might as well have been a loud “Okay, asshole, I’m in,” but I figured I deserved a few minutes to brood about camping with the enemy.

Talk about a head-spinner. An hour ago I’d been celebrating my Jake Milligan takedown and now…we were going to be camping buddies. Fuck . The only thing that made this wacky idea seem marginally palatable was knowing Jake would hate this a thousand times more.

Maybe a million times more.

I grinned. Good. I could work with that.