Chapter Text
Scott Hunter dumped the contents of his backpack on his dorm room floor. He grabbed a few of the crumpled bills and added them to the small pile from his wallet. Two hundred dollars was not nearly enough.
The phone cord snapped in protest. He switched the phone from his left hand to his shoulder, cradling it next to his neck. He moved so he was closer to the wall.
"Of course I'm coming to camp," Scott said. "You couldn't stop me if you tried. It's heaven on earth."
"I'll see you at orientation on Friday, then?"
"See you then." He shoved the bills in his pocket and stood, placed the phone back on the dock, and slumped against the wall. He needed to find a solution fast.
Scott loved hockey, and hockey loved him back. After his parents died in a car crash when he was 12 years old, St. Vincent's athletic scholarship fund rescued him and put him in a all-boys boarding school for athletes. His parents would have been proud, both having been hockey coaches. St. Vincent's had access to the best facilities and the best coaches in the northeast.
Scott had flourished there as a center, worked his way up to varsity by the time he was 14, and was elected alternate captain at 15, and finally captainship this year at 17. He was a rising senior and scouts were paying attention to him. His dream, like most of his classmates at St. Vincent's, was to go pro.
He didn't have the money for college, or the knack for school, but he had buried himself in hockey when he had buried his parents, and his coaches told him the dream was within reach. He just had to hustle a little longer before he made it properly into the professional world.
Camp Skaneateles, or "Champ Camp," as it was known to the hockey world, was a picturesque bubble in upstate New York that churned out professional athletes. It was audition-only for campers, six weeks of intense training mixed with classical camp activities, and finished with a scrimmage that college and MLH coaches attended with reverence. It was the epitome of work hard and play hard. Scott had been attending since he was 11. His parents had been on the board, but that didn't hold any sway with the entrance competition. He earned his spot, year after year. He held the award for fastest shot accuracy in the skills competition since he was 14, and no one had come close to beating it.
This would be his last year as a camper. It was the most critical year as a player. He had made it through the entrance scrimmage again, along with his best friend, but he didn't have the money to actually make waves. His St. Vincent's scholarship covered his camp uniform and food, but he would have to use the school equipment for everything else. And he didn't want to use school equipment for his final year. He wanted smooth edges on his skates. He wanted to have finesse on the ice. He would need better equipment. He did not want a pity vote at the end of camp. He wanted to earn his place among the greats. It was a hell of a lot harder to do that with battered equipment where he was constantly maintaining and fixing. He hand-sewed his pads for reinforcement before every game to avoid them drooping. He maintained his skates in pristine condition, but they were a few years old, and the leather was peeling. He did not want to look like he didn't care to recruiters. He imagined it was a lot harder for them to imagine him on their team when he looked so raggedy.
He pulled out the newspaper and scanned the classifieds. Newspaper delivery boy did not pay enough. He could change tires and check an engine, but he didn't think he had enough knowledge to be a car mechanic. He flipped the paper over.
Wanted: Dual Position for Street Advertising and Waitstaff
Job avail. for a strong person to advertise restaurant on the street in the mornings, in restaurant-appropriate attire. Evenings, wait staff position with opportunity for tips. Must be able to lift 50 lbs, stand for long periods of time, and work overtime. No experience required, will train. Call 800-DIN-SAUR for info. To start ASAP.
Scott uncapped his pen and circled the number so that it stood out in the sea of text. He picked up the phone again. He had nothing to lose.
"What?" the voice on the other line said.
"Uh, hello, sir," he said. "My name is Scott Hunter. I'm calling about the ad you posted in the classifieds about work available."
"Oh," the man said. "Are you available to come in today?"
The restaurant was on a corner between a Blockbuster and a Carvel. Big block lettering in red spelled out "DINE-O-SAUR." It was not subtle.
The entryway was covered in faux foliage. Scott ducked his head. The plastic leaves tickled his neck.
The man was taller than him, had a bit of a belly, and was wearing a blue maintenance jumpsuit. He had gray hair and bright green eyes. Scott thought he looked a little bit like the Cheshire Cat with that grin.
Jermiah had taken over the restaurant from his uncle. It had been in the red for awhile, but they served damn good Southern comfort food, and he believed in it.
"You must be Scott, glad to have you here. Let me show you the ropes."
There was a quick tour of the front of house, which had seating for 50, and then the kitchen and back of house with lockers for the workers.
The pay was more than fair.
"There's just one thing," Jeremiah said. "The morning part of the job will be in advertising."
"I write for the paper in school," Scott said. "I can write a good ad."
"It's not quite like that. You recall the part of the ad that said, you must be able to lift 50 lbs?"
Jeremiah pulled a tarp off one of the benches. "Ta-da!"
Underneath was a spinning sign, bright red arrow that said DINE-O-SAUR in the trademark letters. And next to that, was a full-on dinosaur costume.
It looked like a T-rex, but admittedly, Scott was long past his dinosaur phase.
"Listen, the kid I normally hire to do this has an internship this year, so I'm even more short-handed than usual. Normally I would only take on experienced waiters, since training you will come out of my own time, but if you can do this in the mornings, the job is yours."
Scott thought about the probability of actual cash tips. He thought about how close he was to his hockey dreams.
"I can do it. How hard could it be?"