Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
I shook my head and chomped another bite. “If you get back together with her or if you want someone else, let me know. Not to sound like a prude, but I’m not down with sharing.”
“Me either.” Vinnie cocked his head sideways. “It took me a long time to get here. I’m not ready to propose or anything, but I don’t want to fuck it up. You do it for me.”
My heart soared and careened like a bird cresting a current. You do it for me. In Vinnie speak, that was practically a sonnet.
“The feeling is mutual,” I replied, bumping his arm affectionally.
“Good to know. What does it for you?”
“You.”
“No, moron. I mean specifically. I’m new at this, so like…what can I do better?”
His earnestness took me by surprise.
“Uh…I don’t know. You’re good at everything,” I gushed. I could tell he was frustrated with my reply, so I hastily added, “Especially kissing. I could make out with you for hours. You’re the best kisser…possibly ever.”
Vinnie beamed. “I know, right?”
I barked a laugh. “You suck.”
“I’m getting better at that too, huh?” He waited for me to catch my breath and continued. “Not as good as you. I mean, you must have a degree in cockology, ’cause you’re a fucking maestro.”
We snickered at our adolescent compliments, leaning on sun-kissed arms, shoulder to shoulder…like old friends.
See, this was why almost everyone on the planet liked Vinnie. He was silly and irreverent with an infectious sense of humor and an uncanny ability to live in the moment. Best of all, he didn’t dwell on dark thoughts or recriminations and he didn’t romanticize…whatever this was.
We could make out and writhe naked for hours, and when we were sated, we’d redress and fall into an old familiar banter reminiscent of our youth. Of course, it had evolved into a more adult theme—I’d nag him for stealing covers and he’d push me into the wet spot or make up words like cockology.
I felt lighter around him, more carefree. Things that used to seem tedious were fun again.
Like coaching.
I’d agreed to help my brother at the rink ’cause he needed me, but I didn’t always enjoy it. It was more like a bad-paying second job with a side serving of family guilt. I did it for my brother, for my dad, and for a family legacy I didn’t always feel attached to.
Now I did it to be with Vinnie. I didn’t want to miss seeing the great Kimbo in action, zipping across the ice in his usual gregarious way, boisterously coaxing the teens to concentrate, try harder, skate faster. He was funny, charming, and easy to talk to.
Vinnie reached those kids with his in-your-face, slightly unorthodox truth-bomb approach. Kinney was a puck hog, Max was terrible on defense, and none of them were particularly fast skaters or accurate shooters. His self-deprecating humor softened his critique and made him relatable…at least during practice.
Honestly, other than his copious use of colorful language, Vin reminded me of my dad out there. And my father had a way of making you want to work. It wasn’t enough to tell kids to protect the puck or fight for position. You had to show them why and how their efforts mattered. Dad had been a natural. And though he wouldn’t agree…so was Vinnie.
The juniors adored him. So did their parents.
We had an audience at every practice, and our last scrimmage had garnered a record attendance. Vinnie had been mobbed by fans who’d driven from the far reaches of Vermont to see an NHL great. He’d signed jerseys, ball caps, and body parts, and smiled through dozens of selfies after our team was demolished by the Pinecrest Penguins.
At any other time, I might have been bummed about the loss and concerned about shoring up the kids’ confidence, but now I was more bewildered by my brother’s apparent genius. Ronnie was right. Vinnie’s presence alone created a stir.
Over the past two weeks, we’d signed an additional six teens to our junior summer league and started a waiting list for the fall that currently consisted of at least ten players willing to drive half an hour or more to spend ninety minutes twice a week at the El Rink. It was madness.
If I’d wanted out, this was probably a good time to tell Ronnie to hire a more experienced offensive coach to help run the program. The rink was generating some serious cash now—enough to hire someone who’d played at a higher level than I ever had.
But I wasn’t ready to sacrifice a single second of this summer with Vinnie. We were a good team. I was the practical one; he was the powerhouse motivator. I set the drills and kept everyone on track while Vinnie alternately entertained and cajoled his adoring pupils. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it was working.