It wasn’t clear whether it was a statement or a question, so I decided my best course of action was to shut up. I would get the damn ticket so I could continue my search for the street that didn’t exist.
“What are you doing in Chance Rapids? Skiing?” He glanced into the truck bed, where there were clearly no skis.
“That’s my hockey equipment.” I shivered, hoping that Inspector Tubby Pants would pick up the pace.
The cop, whose name badge readHenderson, folded up his notepad and handed me my paperwork. “Are you the new player for the Bobcats?”
Temporarily, but that wasn’t public knowledge. I had been hired by the assistant coach to play in the Christmas Classic. A fancy name for a game on a shitty outdoor rink. When he’d called me, my first response had beenhell no. But, after he bribed me with ten thousand dollars, I decided that it might be time to spend Christmas in the mountains. It was a crappy little mountain league, and they certainly weren’t allowed to pay their players, let alone recruit a semipro.
Although I wasn’t technically a player at all—not until my suspension was lifted.
That was our work-around. I was also from the East Coast in the Northern Professional Hockey League, and no one from this town would have heard of me. I was good, but I wasn’t famous.
“I am the new goalie for the Bobcats.” I hated the cutesy name.
A grin spread across Henderson’s face. “Harry.” He extended his sausage-fingered hand.
I shook it. “Nick.”
Harry tucked the pen into the pocket of his coat. “Nick, how about you save those fancy spinning moves for the ice.”
He was letting me off. If he wanted to be a dick, that e-brake turn could’ve easily been considered reckless driving, a charge just as bad as an impaired one. “Will do, Officer.”
“It’s Harry from now on. Welcome to Chance Rapids, Nicholas Tinsel.”
Coach told me that hockey players were like celebrities in Chance Rapids, but I hadn’t believed him. After all, it was a crappy little league that had only turned out one or two good players to the major leagues.
“Harry.” I caught him before he walked away. “I’m staying at Snowy Peaks on Oak Street, but I’m having a hell of a time finding it.”
Harry chuckled, which turned into a barking cough. “They plowed the entrance to the street so that no one can drive on it. It’s the skijoring street.”
Skijoring?It was a weird word, one that I didn’t know, but I was starting to feel light-headed and realized that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I also realized that I didn’t care what skijoring was; it sounded like a ski-joke. “So, how do I get to the inn? I’d like to get some dinner.”
The directions were pretty simple, and I committed them to my brain. For a hockey player who had been knocked around his whole life, I had a pretty decent memory. I thanked Harry and started up the truck, rubbing my hands together to try to get the feeling back into my fingertips.
Harry’s hand was still on the frame of my window, so I couldn’t roll it up. “They only serve breakfast at SnowyPeaks. This time of night your options are the Brew House or the G-Spot.”
“Excuse me?” Unlike ski-what-cha-ma-call-it, this word intrigued me enough to ask about it.
Steam puffed from Harry’s mouth as he laughed. “I forget how bad that sounds.” He pointed to the frosty windows of the building next to the variety store. “It’s short form for the general store. Someone started calling it the G-Spot years ago, and I guess it just stuck. They’ve got a great roast beef sandwich. Tell Muriel that you’re the new player and she’ll probably pour you a special coffee.” He winked, patted the truck, and sauntered back to his car.
A trendy beer house or a dingy diner. Those were my two options. My stomach growled, answering me—it needed food now. An old-fashioned roast beef sandwich, likely served open faced with peas and mashed potatoes, was just what I needed.
The bells jingled above my head as I entered the diner.
“Have a seat anywhere you’d like,” a white-haired woman yelled from the little cutout at the back. The place smelled delicious, in the deep-fried,I probably shouldn’t be eating thiskind of way. I slid into a booth and pulled a laminated menu from the metal jam holder.
The white-haired lady wore an apron and horn-rimmed glasses. “What can I get for you, son?”
I bristled, but unlike the cop, I wasn’t going to be a dick to an old lady. “I’d like your roast beef sandwich.”
“Fries or mashed?” She wasn’t writing any of it down.
“Who gets fries when mashed is an option?” I shot her a smile.
She gave it back to me. “Mashed it is.” Even though it was eight o’clock at night, Muriel came to the table equipped with a coffee carafe in her hand. “What are you doing here in town?” She took the mug from the table setting and filled it without asking if I wanted coffee.
Testing out the theory that everyone in town loved the hockey players, I shot her another smile. “I’m the new goalie for the Bobcats.”
