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

WALKER

Rude.

Rude.

Rude.

I didn’t like Ty Czerniak. I didn’t like big, burly hockey players. I didn’t like hockey.

Just… Ugh!

Unfortunately, I wasn’t a football fan either.

I wrinkled my nose at the supersized shirtless linebacker guzzling a gallon of water, unbothered that a third of the contents dribbled down his chin and along his thick and heaving chest. I’d like to claim it was sexy, but Arlo was a ding-dong with an inflated ego and a small willy he “accidentally” showed off whenever his towel slipped. Yawn.

Robin clicked dozens of action photos while I waited for my subject to hydrate and hopefully share a few words of wisdom about the football team’s first win of the season.

This was hell. If anyone had told my younger self I’d finagle my way into a job that included a press pass to locker rooms filled with sweaty muscular men, I’d never have believed it.

Not my cup of tea. First of all, sweat… ew .

And second, locker rooms were generally affiliated with sporty endeavors which required extra peppy energy on my part.

I didn’t hate all sports, per se, but toxic masculinity was a double ew . Case in point, Arlo.

However, the eye candy was nice and there were a few sweet “perks,” like prime seating at the games, behind-the-scenes access, and exclusive interviews.

Okay, that last one wasn’t a guarantee.

Grr . You guessed it—I was still sore about my botched attempt to secure an interview with Ty Czerniak. Very sore.

I didn’t deal with rejection well. I was a fixer.

I wanted to know what I’d done wrong, what I could do better, and if possible, how I could change your mind.

Pathetic, huh? It wasn’t that I wanted everyone to like me.

It was more that I didn’t like knowing that someone hated me or harbored actively ambivalent feelings.

By the way, don’t tell me active ambivalence isn’t a thing. As the only child of divorced parents who’d shipped me off to boarding schools at the first opportunity, I was very familiar with the concept of people being aware of your existence without feeling the need to engage.

Oh, boohoo . Life was full of lemons. If you weren’t out there making lemonade, you’d never stand a chance. I knew that better than most.

Did I have something to prove? Darn tootin’, I did. I wanted to be someone, and I wanted the people who’d written me off to take notice. So far, it was going pretty well, if I did say so myself.

What’s New, Smithton? was mind-bogglingly popular. Seriously. A streaming channel with a million followers and prolific sponsorship was nothing to sneeze at.

What had started as a mini side project for a communication class my freshman year had blossomed into a thriving business whose objective was to highlight people, places, and events of interest in a teeny, tiny college town.

Not gonna lie, I’d never dreamed there was an audience for people interested in everything from the history of Smithton to our taste in coffee, music, and food.

My highest rated episodes last year had been a segment on a new yarn shop and the shirtless interview I’d done with our curling team.

No, no, I’d kept my shirt on, but those goofballs went off-script and the result had been comedy gold.

We’d gone viral…again. Honestly, that might have been the story that pushed our subscribership into the stratosphere.

That and the “Valentine Sneak Kiss Cam” episode a year and a half ago.

And yes, that episode was the reason Ty Czerniak hated me.

Sigh.

I understood. I really did.

What’s New, Smithton? was my show, and my name was all over it. If something was good or bad, it was my responsibility. I took the credit or the blame. I had a small staff who helped suss out fresh storylines, but I had final sign-off.

And on that one particular occasion of celebrating hearts, flowers, and all things lurv, I’d let something big slip through the cracks.

Sidebar with full-disclosure-slash-confession: Jett Erickson, a former Bears hockey player and Ty Czerniak’s bestie, had been accidentally outed on my channel.

I know what you’re thinking and I accept your contempt.

But trust me, as a gay man, I’d been mortified by the oversight that had led to a blurry photo of Jett kissing his boyfriend being published and shared with a few hundred thousand fans. Mortified.

I’d immediately removed the offending photo, publicly apologized, and privately groveled as well.

Apparently, that wasn’t enough for Smithton’s hockey hero’s best friend.

And that was life. Win some, lose some. Not everyone was your flavor of Cheerios.

Some preferred plain or honey nut or they were cornflakes fans.

Some people didn’t like cereal at all. This was why we had choices.

Obviously, I wasn’t Ty’s type of person and he held a mean grudge, which was his prerogative. I just wished?—

Arlo belched loudly in my ear, violently pulling me from my reverie.

I bit back my grimace of distaste like a pro. “Congrats on your win tonight, man. The fans were on fire tonight.”

Trying too hard? Yes, I heard myself. But give me a break…I was ad-libbing like a maniac. I didn’t know jock-speak, but I’d studied interviews with the veteran reporters on ESPN and had learned to throw in a “man” and a fist bump without coming across as a total dweeb. It usually worked.

Most of the jocks I’d met were sweet, uncomplicated guys who thought shoving each other on the field or ice was super fun. The tougher they seemed, the harder they took a loss. And they all loved to win.

“Dude, it was awesome,” Arlo drawled, affecting an impression of a California surfer. Since I knew for a fact that Arlo was from Scranton, I had no idea what that was about. However, I’d been known to adopt a questionable British accent after a few too many G and Ts, so no judgment here.

“Absolutely. Do you have anything to tell Smithton football fans?”

Arlo cocked his head thoughtfully. “Uh…I got a new tattoo.”

Eye roll checked and a tight smile fixed firmly in place, I inched closer. “Oh, that’s a cool…spider?”

“No, man, it’s a bear claw. Can’t you tell?” He lifted his arm, exposing his rather fragrant pit and gestured to the blob of black spidery inkwork.

“I see it,” I lied.

“Love this thing. I’m getting one for my ass too. On each cheek.” Of course, he stood and dropped his towel, mooning everyone in the vicinity.

Rude . But all things considered, it was a nice tush.

I averted my gaze quickly. Smithton was a progressive institution, but as an undersized gay man in a room full of testosterone-laden giants, I didn’t want to get caught staring at Arlo’s beefy buns.

The beast of a man at the neighboring locker smacked Arlo with his towel. If memory served, his name was Carson. He was as thick as his teammate all over, albeit much better looking—like Superman, but with dark-blond hair and blue eyes.

Carson growled in what I thought was a chivalrous attempt to admonish Arlo’s impetuous bare booty shake. However, he ruined his momentary good guy status by flexing his biceps and yelling, “Smithton Bears, rawr !”

I winced as one might when a giant roars in one’s face, and again when the entire team, in various forms of undress, joined in. The deafening noise reverberated off the lockers like an off-key battle cry.

I shared a glance with Robin, tilting my chin meaningfully. It was time to make an escape.

We backed out of the room stealthily and hightailed it down the corridor. Neither of us said a word until we reached the parking lot.

“You got roared on. I think I saw fangs.” Robin made a face and gave a theatrical shiver that sent his unruly hair into his eyes.

I blanched. “Did you get any good photos?”

“Naturally,” he bragged.

I didn’t doubt it. Robin was a fabulous photographer—like, truly amazing.

He was a tall wiry senior with floppy brown hair, freckles, and glasses. We’d met at orientation the summer we’d each committed to attending Smithton and had been the best of friends since.

Fun fact: Robin was my first “employee,” and along with my Aunt Kay, he was one of my biggest cheerleaders. He was also an unrepentant geek with a quirky sense of humor and a penchant for classic video games and photography.

I pulled my keys from my bag and aimed the fob at my Mini Cooper. “I’ll go through them tonight and come up with titillating commentary to complement the belching tattooed giant’s words of wisdom. Wish me luck. This may take every brain cell I have in my arsenal.”

“That was painful,” he conceded, chuckling.

I nodded in agreement. “I have a lead on a retired Smithton professor who just published a cookbook—all desserts. A cooking-class segment could be fun, and God knows I could use a break from athletes.”

The problem with good friends was that they tended to know you too well. Robin narrowed his eyes. “What happened with the hockey player?”

“Let’s just say, I like football players better.”

“That bad?”

“Worse,” I grumbled. “Ty Czerniak hates me.”

Robin snorted. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“Oh, yes, he does. You should have seen the way he looked at me. Pure contempt with a side of malice. I don’t think I’ve ever been hated to my face. I didn’t like it.”

“Poor baby. What are you going to do?”

I shrugged helplessly. “What can I do? He’s holding a grudge for his former teammate who forgave me a year and a half ago. I don’t want to dredge up that ugly chapter again. It was horrifying the first go-around.”

“A Smithton senior signing with a professional team is big news, Walker. Are we even relevant if we don’t report it?”

“But if I do report it and Ty finds out, which at a school the size of a postage stamp, he certainly will…he might accuse me of using his name for ratings and tear me apart, limb by limb. For real.” I tossed my bag into the back seat and leaned against my car.

“Sounds dramatic,” he deadpanned.

“Maybe so, but I’ve never had anyone look like they wished I fell off a cliff and hit a hundred boulders before landing facedown on concrete.”

“So what are you going to do? Give up?”

I sighed. “Of course not. Perseverance is part of the job. I’ll try again. If the answer is still no, I’ll accept it…along with the sad truth that hockey and I will never have a good relationship.”

Robin patted my shoulder condescendingly. “There, there. If you ask me, what we have here is a collision of prejudices—your personal hockey angst and his grudge.”

I crossed my arms defensively—my way of admitting he was right. “Any suggestions?”

“Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

“That’s very mafia chic of you, and very off-brand for me,” I snarked.

“Maybe, but everyone has a price.”

“We’re college students, Robby. We don’t pay for interviews.”

“You could make a trade, a barter of some kind.”

“If your mind has wandered to the gutter, steer it to safety. There’s no way and no chance for carnal persuasion in this situation.”

He squinted like an owl through his thick glasses. “I honestly hadn’t thought of that, but…”

“But…” I prodded. “What were you thinking?”

“I—no, never mind. I’ll ponder the dilemma over a cup of hot cocoa, Assassin’s Creed , and?—”

I caught Robin’s elbow, jostling his camera bag from his shoulder. “If we’re reporting this story, we have to act now. Timing is everything. So…out with it.”

Robin hesitated a beat, no doubt studying my body language before blurting, “Ty’s idol is Ketchum Clomsky.”

My mouth fell open. “No.”

“ Mmhmm . I read it on his high school bio pic. Don’t look at me like that…you know I have a predilection for hockey players. Perhaps you could offer a jersey, a signed puck or photograph, or?—”

“I—no.”

“Understood.” He stepped away, pasting a cheery smile on his face. “I’ll put the ol’ thinking cap on and hopefully wake up with a genius idea in the morning. Do we have a shoot tomorrow?”

I ignored the hollow feeling in my chest and inclined my head. “A fellow student-slash-ceramic artist who makes anatomically correct brains out of clay.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Next week, we have the Brewsky Brothers at the Tavern.”

“A hard pass for this fella.” He held up both hands in surrender.

“I figured. I’ll take photos with my phone and use their logo for a place-saver. You’re off the hook.”

“Ceramics and drunken frat boy bands?”

“Smithton entertainment at its finest,” I chirped sarcastically.

“That’s why we need the hockey hero. G’night, sleep tight, and all that hooey,” Robin called over his shoulder.

My gaze flitted to the gaggle of students exiting the stadium. Time to go. I’d made a point to park in the farthest corner of the lot possible, but if anyone spotted me, they’d expect a happy-go-lucky grin and a friendly word from Smithton’s celebrity influencer.

Don’t laugh—it’s true. My hair alone usually was enough to earn me a double take. I’d taken advantage of my red locks by including a redheaded illustrated figure on the What’s New, Smithton? logo. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, right?

Yeah, well…I wished I had a hat handy now and that my adorable Mini Cooper’s Union Jack design was less recognizable.

But I didn’t, and it wasn’t.

My only recourse was to slink home and ride out my gloomy mood with a pint of rocky road and a Gilmore Girls marathon in peace and quiet. My Ty Czerniak dilemma could wait till tomorrow.

Unfortunately, my Ketchum Clomsky problem was a life sentence, and I was exceedingly irked by the notion that he might unknowingly save the day. If, of course, I stooped so low as to use that particular ace up my sleeve. And I wouldn’t.

No chance. I wasn’t that desperate.