Page 15 of Something to Prove (Smithton Bears #2)

TY

Two hundred and fifty-three thousand followers.

Make that two hundred and sixty. Two-seventy.

Fuck, each time I checked my cell, I gained another ten thousand. Or more.

“This isn’t normal,” Toby cautioned. “I hope you know that. I guaran-damn-tee you I’ve never had an AHL’s PR team go fucking bananas over a newly signed rookie’s social feed. I’ve been fielding calls from someone named Magnus who knows a guy at Sports Illustrated , but?—”

“Whoa. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Toby. What’s New, Smithton? works because it’s small-town college content. Going bigger is too much, too soon. I need to prove I have what it takes on the ice first.”

Toby chuckled on the line. “You don’t have to tell me how it works, Czerniak.

I’m a goddamn dinosaur. I have sixty-plus apps on my phone, I use five of them, and I don’t know how to get rid of the others without giving myself a headache.

I know this, though—you got nothing if you don’t have game.

Thing is…we know you’ve got game, and the Jackals know you’ve got game.

Why not show off at Smithton? Get in on the redhead’s action.

Consider this experiment a personal editorial or a sneak peek at the life and times of young Ty Czerniak.

A subtle nudge to the hockey community that something special is coming their way.

Emphasis on subtle. Where’d you say you’re going today? ”

“Uh…to the diner. We’re learning how to make milkshakes.”

“Good. That sounds like a wholesome upgrade from the pics of you and the bikini crew. Not that I’m judging, but let’s not lose sight of something important here.

This shit works ’cause of the redhead. He’s got charisma.

Stick with him and don’t get your head turned around by a big-bosomed waitress—or a cute guy, ya hear me? ”

I snorted at his quick “cute guy” add-on, though I appreciated that he made the effort to be politically correct while still being slightly offensive.

“Right. I should go. Later, Toby.”

Crap . What had I gotten myself into?

Milkshakes.

That was what I’d gotten myself into.

I scooped chocolate ice cream into the industrial blender, peering inside the vat. “Is that enough?”

Chuck, the lunch chef on duty, had apparently drawn the short straw and was stuck playing tour guide to the What’s New, Smithton?

crew. He was a grizzled man in his sixties with thick gray hair, bushy brows, a potbelly, and a mug set at a permanent scowl.

Not that he was unfriendly—he just had a stellar resting dick face.

Or maybe that was what forty years in the service industry in a college town did to a guy.

“Only if you’re making milkshake shots,” Chuck commented in the gravelly tone of a heavy smoker.

Walker chuckled as he retied the red apron around his slim waist, angling his torso to face the camera like a pro. “Chuck is right. We need a dozen scoops or more and they have to be b-i-g, big. Like this.”

He gripped the scooper, flexing his gloved fingers on the handle and diving into the enormous tub of ice cream, his tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth in concentration. His scoop was double the size of mine. For the sake of reference, think of a marble next to a meatball.

I whistled. “Lawless, man. I didn’t know we could freestyle portions.”

“It’s ice cream, Ty. There are no rules,” Walker singsonged. “Am I right, Chuck?”

The older man narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “I s’pose so.”

Walker did a mini dance, hamming it up for his audience, as well as the waitstaff and cooks working in the main section of the kitchen. Fuck, he was cute.

We’d been at the diner for about an hour and had finally gotten to the good stuff.

The first fifteen minutes, we’d been lectured about kitchen safety and asked to sign our lives away in the event the blender blew up in our faces while Robin and Shay set up lighting and tested their shots.

The next chunk of time was devoted to interviews with servers and a few unsuspecting cooks who happened to be in the vicinity.

Walker let me take over the interviews.

“Introduce yourself, ask them what they love about working at the diner or about Smithton, and ask a question that has to do with milkshakes,” he’d advised.

“What kind of questions? Give me an example.”

“What’s your most popular flavor? Personal favorite?

A shake you despise, and is that even possible?

Have you ever had anyone return a shake?

Do you only put cherries on top of some of them?

” Walker cocked his hip and struck a pose.

“I could go on. How many customers ask for extra whipped cream? Who’s in charge of mashing candy bars for the chocolate nougat surprise shake? What’s your?—”

“Got it. You’ve obviously been thinking about milkshakes.”

“I’m always thinking about milkshakes,” he quipped.

It was on the tip of my tongue to make a bad joke about bringing his milkshake to the yard, but the last thing I needed was a chubby, so I went with, “I bet.”

His lips twisted in amusement as if he understood a secret joke.

“Actually, all that nonsense was off the top of my head.” He tapped his temple and winked. “I’m clever like that…about milkshakes, anyway. C’mon, shall we get this party started?”

I grabbed his sleeve. “Wait up. What if I choke or mess up?”

“You won’t. This isn’t supposed to be perfect. It never is. But even if things take a catastrophic turn, we’re recording this. Robin and Shay may need to cut unexpected interruptions and add or subtract dialogue and background noise.”

“Last question…do you really think your viewers give a fuck about milkshakes?”

Walker gave me a smug look. “If they don’t, they will.”

And thirty minutes later, my fingers cramping from ice cream duty, I believed him. This was fun and weirdly informative.

Did you know that milkshakes were served as “health tonics” in the late nineteenth century and were made with alcohol?

Did you know that the Walgreens pharmacy in Chicago first sold the ice cream and milk concoction to kids at the drug store counter in 1922?

Did you know the blender was made specifically for milkshakes?

Yeah, me neither.

Walker hit the audience with wacky info like: the flexible straw was invented by a man who wanted to make it easier for his daughter to drink her milkshake, Chocolate Milkshake Day is September 12, and the largest milkshake ever made measured six thousand gallons.

Oh, and if you needed a tip for brain freeze, Walker was your man.

“So simple. Just press your tongue to the roof of your mouth,” he informed the audience.

And me? I was still scooping ice cream.

By the time I snapped to attention and realized I’d contributed nothing more than manual labor, we were nearing the end of our allotted time.

“I have scoopers’ tendonitis,” I joked. “Can we move on to the add milk and press Go part now?”

Chuck snorted. “Sure thing. Do you want extras? Chocolate chips, cookie bits, candy bars?”

“Fu—fudge, yes.”

Walker shot a faux-mortified glance my way followed by an over-the-top sigh and a breathtaking grin aimed at the camera. “Phew! Hockey players and their potty mouths.”

I tossed a cherry at him, unthinking, and grimaced.

Shit, there was probably some kind of rule about not throwing fruit at the host during filming.

I smiled tepidly and raised my hands in surrender.

Walker and I weren’t buddies, so I expected anything from a harsh glare to a bout of nervous laughter, but no… he surprised me again.

Walker picked up the cherry that had landed on the floor at his feet and beaned it at my head before reaching for the industrial-sized can of whipped cream, his eyes glinting with mischief and mayhem.

“Out of consideration for our gracious hosts, I wouldn’t dare squirt this foamy deliciousness at my guest star in the hallowed kitchen of Bear Depot, but let it be known there will be retribution.” He clenched his fist as if declaring war, and it was all very…silly.

The Depot spectators snickered at our antics, and even Chuck cracked a grin, snatching the whipped cream container out of Walker’s hand. “Let’s stay on track, shall we, gentlemen?”

“Yes, of course,” Walker agreed. “Next we add milk, correct?”

Walker poured milk while I smashed some cookies with a rolling pin.

I popped a piece into my mouth and earned a smack on the wrist from my cohost, who instructed me to transfer the crushed cookies into the vat.

The second my back was turned, he stole a cookie, which resulted in a mini cookie standoff.

Okay, none of this was comedy gold, but it was kinda, sorta funny. And entertaining.

We chose toppings while the blender did its thing, then transferred the milkshake into two glasses and went to town decorating them.

Mine was a potpourri of basically anything I could get my hands on—chocolate syrup, three types of sprinkles, marshmallow topping, caramel sauce, whipped cream, cookie bits, gummy worms, and five cherries.

And Walker’s looked like something out of a fancy gourmet magazine.

He’d drizzled chocolate symmetrically, added rainbow sprinkles, and dotted whipped cream around the circumference and set one single cherry on top.

“If this was a beauty contest, I’d lose, but damn, this shake is tay-stee!” I dipped my spoon into my shake and grinned for the camera as I pivoted to Walker. “Have a bite.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Get that monstrosity away from me, hockey man. I’m going to enjoy this classier concoction.”

“More for me.” I waggled my brows and took a huge bite, stifling a chuckle when Walker widened his eyes comically for his audience.