There is no Franklin.
Where Franklin came from, I have no clue.
He doesn’t even sound like a real person.
Who names their kid Franklin anymore?
I would have been better off with saying something like Blaze. Blaze is more believable, not . . . Franklin.
“Franklin?” Racer deadpans.
“Yup.” I chuckle. “Good old Franklin. Killer on the ice, that guy. Has some of the best cuts I’ve ever seen.”
“And what’s Franklin’s last name?”
“Dolittle.” I nod, hating myself but trying to convince Racer that this Franklin Dolittle fella is real.
“Dolittle. You’re going to go train with a guy tomorrow by the name of Franklin Dolittle.”
“Yup, funny right?”
Suspiciously glaring at me, he pulls his phone from his back pocket and starts typing. Leaning forward to catch what he’s doing, I ask, “What are you typing there?”
“Looking up thisexpert on the ice, Franklin Dolittle.”
Without even thinking, I swat the phone out of his hand, sending it careening into a pile of wood on the floor.
“What the fuck, man?”
“Uh . . . sorry. Spasm.” I shake out my arm and then give it a couple stretches across my body. “No need to look him up, ’cause he’s aloof. Stays off the Internet, keeps to himself. He’s only known in the underground hockey world. It’s kind of like a black market of sorts but for hockey.”
Jesus, I’m really digging myself a hole here.
Note to self: you’re not good at lying.
At least you’re not good at creating believable lies.
“Dude, you did not have a spasm.”
“You don’t know that.” I whip my arm around in a windmill like motion. “This old thing spasms all the time.”
Hands on his hips, looking me dead in the eyes, Racer says, “Stop fucking with me. What are you doing tonight?”
Shit.
Think . . . think . . . fuck, I got it.
Shrugging, trying to act embarrassed, I say, “Ugh, fine, you got me. I’m, uh, I’m taking a water aerobics class tonight. It’s to help with my muscles. It’s with a bunch of older ladies, and it’s at eight forty-five. It’s a, uh, black-light party class. We bring glow sticks and everything.”
This is a real thing. My mom spent a good ten minutes on the phone with me the other day telling me about it. She was so damn excited it was hard not to get caught up in her enthusiasm.
Racer studies me and shakes his head. “You’re not fucking going to some glow-stick swim party. I’m not buying it.”
“You don’t know. I actually really like black lights and glow sticks. There’s nothing more exciting than a neon parade of sticks while dancing in the water. Don’t make me feel bad about my extracurricular activities, dude.”
“Okay.” Racer sets down his hammer, goes to the woodpile and pockets his phone. “Come on, I don’t want you to be late.”
Ehhh . . .
