Page 33 of Hot Shot
Especially so seeing how one of the greatest players of all time was born here.
We didn’t even get out of the boat of a car Gannon Byrd owns before the first person approached for an autograph. I’m pretty sure they thought Bran was Gannon at first. Especially after one of the locals mentioned the car once belonged to his late grandmother.
The true hockey fans get a bit flustered and inquisitive when they work out who we are, that we both play—played—professionally. They want to know if we’ll play again.
And when the fanatics realize I’m one of the owners of the new expansion team, the questions about Bran and me together get more specific. Is Bran going to play for my team? Who else are we looking to sign? Have we chosen our team colors? Our mascot?
Bran deflects well, in spite of not having been in the spotlight for years. Like riding a bike, the media training he was put through in the past, not to mention the times Dad gave us advice on navigating our celebrity, click into place and I couldn’t be more proud of him.
I can see his discomfort, but I’m sure it isn’t obvious to anyone else. And for the most part, once we dodge a question or two, people give up digging and offer advice on where to eat, what to see in town.
That’s how we find ourselves eating at Mama Jo’s. Stepping through the door is like stepping through time. Booths that seat up to six line one wall, square tables surrounded by four chairs fill the center of the room, round stools with shiny legs run the length of the counter on the opposite wall to the booths… the furnishings aren’t the only thing pointing to the time-warp crossing the threshold sucks you into.
It’s the uniforms the waitresses wear, their hairdos, the soda machine and pie display on the far end of the counter.
If some Hollywood director is looking for authentic sixties diner style they need to go no further, just have to step through the door of Mama Jo’s.
Oh, and they need to be sure to order the daily special.
I have it on good authority that everything Mama Jo cooks is worth the price but she puts a unique twist on the daily special that makes it impossible to pass up.
How do I know this? Harold told me. He said it in a whisper, his hand covering his mouth as though someone might read his lips, when he imparted the ‘town secret’.
Apparently, they don’t give this information to just any old tourist, but seeing how I brought home more than one gold medal for the country, even though I insist on playing my team out of thesouth, I earned the insider knowledge.
I had to hold in my laughter. The smirk on Bran’s face didn’t help, but I managed to keep a straight face and thank Harold. Promise I would indeed order the daily special.
A special that turns out to be a classic cheeseburger with special sauce and fries, followed by butter tarts with homemade vanilla ice cream. Marg, our waitress, flushes pink when she looks at Bran and the shy smile she sends his way once she’s written down our order doesn’t go unnoticed either.
When she leaves our booth to put in our order, I lean forward and whisper, “I think you have an admirer.”
“Marg? Yeah, she’s one of the people I’ve seen more than once since I’ve been here. She delivers for the grocery store on Mondays.”
“Only Mondays?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Whenever I call in an order, I get a tut-tut if it’s not Monday. Arthur, the grocery store owner, seems to think Marg and I would make a good pair and isn’t afraid to let me know.”
“And how does he come to that conclusion?”
“I’m told Marg and Arthur’s daughter are best friends and Marg has mentioned on more than one occasion how nice she thinks I am.”
“You tip well.”
“What?”
“I bet you tip the delivery person well, that would make anyone smitten.”
Chuckling, Bran mutters, “I’m sure it’s a little more than that.”
“She’s got to be twice your age.”
“I like older women.” He winks, the smirk on his lips making me want to lean further over and kiss him.
I ignore the urge and say, “You do.”
