Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
We talk about Travis and the fact that he hasn’t mentioned his conversation with Camden about liking me.
In a kissing way!
I decided not to bring it up because I’m still unsure of what we have going on. The only thing Travis knows is that Camden likes me and apparently, he’s okay with that. He doesn’t know the intricacies of dating someone for the first time since Mitch’s death or the social implications of Camden and Mitch being teammates. That’s all more than his nine-year-old mind can process right now, nor should he have to reconcile that at his age. Until Camden and I find sure footing, I’ll wait to see if Travis mentions it.
“You excited about the road trip coming up?” I ask.
He nods as he finishes a bite of his sandwich. When he swallows, he says, “Yeah. We’re on fire right now and we want to test that momentum out in opponents’ arenas. That’s where playoff championships are won or lost… in how well you play on the road and without your fan base behind you.”
“The team has really stepped it up this year. It’s phenomenal when you consider how the team was patched together.”
“I think that’s all Coach West.” The respect is evident in his tone. “We’ve got the same talent we had last year, but he knows how to inspire.”
“He’s become a solid support to me over the last several months.”
“I’m not surprised,” Camden says, bumping his knee affectionately against mine.
Cannon’s loss of his wife to cancer several years ago makes him uniquely experienced in how healing happens over the long haul. He’s so easy to talk to, and you can tell that’s because he’s genuinely interested in helping others.
I find Camden to be that way too.
My doorbell rings as I’m bringing my cheese steak up for another bite, so I set it down and wipe my greasy fingers on a napkin. Scooting my chair back, I head for the front door to find the UPS man there.
I’m not expecting anything so I’m surprised when he hands over a package addressed to me that requires a signature. The return address brings a smile to my face.
“Thank you,” I say as I sign his electronic pad.
I carry the lightweight box into the kitchen and Camden asks what it is.
“No clue. But it’s from Mitch’s mom. She sends gifts to Travis all the time, but this one is addressed to me.”
I set it on the counter and move back toward the table.
“Open it,” Camden says, nodding at the package. He must sense my curiosity and excitement.
I stare at him a moment, unsure if it’s rude to take part of our lunch hour to do so, but he nods again at the gift, a firm expression on his face.
Decision made, I grab scissors from the utility drawer and cut along the packing tape. Balled-up pieces of newspaper surround what I immediately see is a scrapbook. Mitch’s mom, Cora, loves the hobby and has chronicled our lives over the years in these books. I run my hand lovingly over the front, done in a blue-and-purple-checked fabric with an inset picture of me and Mitch. We were young… the newest of friends.
I feel Camden behind me and then his hand is lightly on my waist as he looks over my shoulder. “What is it?”
“A scrapbook.” I start to push it away but his other hand comes around to lay on mine, halting my movement.
“Go ahead and open it. Let’s see it.”
I hesitate because I know inside is full of memories. I’m sure Cora found a box of photos and put them together in a lovely story of some portion of our lives, most likely chronicling how we grew to love each other.
I lift my face to look at Camden, and he smiles with encouragement and understanding. “Go on. Unless you don’t want me looking, then—”
“No, I don’t mind. There’s nothing to hide and nothing that’s private.”
“Then go on.” He moves to my side and leans forward, crossing his forearms on the counter.
“Okay,” I say with a grin and open the book.
The first photo is of Mitch facing the camera and holding up a homemade card. I recognize it instantly and still have it. I was seven and he was nine. It was for my birthday—my parents were having a neighborhood party for me. His mom insisted he make the card as she was trying to get him to explore his artistic side—which did not exist—and not focus so much on hockey. There’s another picture on the same page of me and Mitch at my birthday party. He had gotten me a book as I often had my nose stuck in one.
“Mitch looks like you were going to give him cooties,” Camden remarks as he takes in my arm over his shoulder, cheesing for the camera, and Mitch leaning away. We were buddies but sometimes I could be annoying, given our age difference.