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JAKE

A summer 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 descended en masse for 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 three children, 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.

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 facade 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 just happened 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 two nights 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.

No…no way.

No fucking way.

Vinnie squeezed my right arm. “Hear me out, Jake. I?—”

“This is a joke, right?” I scrubbed my jaw, gritting my teeth as Mason Trinsky high-fived his way into the diner, stopping to sign a napkin and chat with Mr. and Mrs. Cabot, an octogenarian couple who lived across the street from my dad’s real estate office.

I listened with half an ear to Vinnie and McD yammering about algorithms, social media frenzies, and contracts while I observed the smug jerkwad holding court like a fucking rock god.

Trinsky oozed confidence with a good-natured, laid-back vibe. He was a favorite with Denver’s fans who were amused by his showmanship and cocky persona. He was popular with the campers in the juniors program too. But I rarely interacted with Trinsky in Elmwood if I could help it. There were tons of campers and other hockey players around, and I wasn’t a glutton for punishment.

So…what the fuck was happening here?

This was my hometown, my turf, my safe space.

“Two rivals at a family camp fund raiser. Think Amazing Race . Can you see those headlines? It’s awesome, free publicity, and the timing couldn’t be sweeter. Be realistic, Jake,” McD pleaded. “You’re thirty-two going on thirty-three. Ticket sales have been down for two years. And that’s not all on you. Maybe you’re not Boston’s franchise anymore, but you’re still a high-profile star and an asset to the organization. They need you to be more visible, and this right here is a fucking softball. Hockey fans across the league will eat this up.”

“There’s got to be someone else,” I mumbled. “Anyone.”

“It’s forty-eight hours, man,” Vinnie cajoled. “You can do anything for two days.”

Could I?

I had doubts. Big doubts.