When Sloane leaves, Cal turns to me, mouth pressed into a questioning line. “Be nice to Wren? Are you still speculating about her?”
“I am.” I cross my arms, lean back, try to ignore the pain streaking up my leg. “And I need your help to prove that I’m right about this.”
Cal holds his hands up, shaking his head and walking backward. “Oh, no—no way, dude. You are not dragging me into this. Sloane willnotbe happy if she finds out I’m enabling your paranoia.”
I fix him with a stare. Sloane might be his wife, but he and I have been best friends since we were kids. “Really? Because I could tell her about the missing skate incident…?”
Cal laughs nervously, eyes darting to the door like Sloane might still be there, listening, realizing her husband might have had something to do with the worst Christmas morning of her life.
We’d just finished opening presents, and Sloane had just gotten a brand-new pair of skates. Right out of the box, barely broken in, bubblegum pink. And thanks to Cal, they went under the freezing water at the lake, which wasn’t quite solid enough for us to skate on yet.
“Fine,” Cal grouses. “But if anyone is shady on the team, it’s you. Blackmailer.”
“Meet me at my place,” I say, lowering my voice as the trainer comes back in, crutches clacking together in her hands. “Eight, tonight.”
***
True to his word, Callum is standing on my porch five minutes early, shifting from foot-to-foot, shaking his head and worrying at his curls with one hand.
“I don’t know, man,” he says as we head down to the car. “Sloane isn’t going to like this if she finds out, and I hate lying to her. Doesn’t Mandy have anything to say about it?”
I glance back at the dark house, realizing I should have at least left a light on upstairs to keep up the illusion of living with someone. Living with my wife.
Obviously, I’m going to tell Sloane and Callum eventually. Maybe after everything settles, when I’m not meeting with Mandy and the lawyer trying to make sure everything is sorted according to our prenup.
“No,” I answer, because it’s the truest thing I can say. Mandy has never really cared that much about anything I’ve been up to. She never even bothered to learn the most basic details abouthockey. At the time, I hadn’t cared about that. It didn’t matter. Now, I wonder if it was some sort of foreshadowing.
Together, Cal and I walk to my car—a recently refurbished black Firebird, a car I fell in love with watchingNightriderwith my dad as a kid. The kind of thing that reminds me of all the ways my life has changed since I was a suburban teenager. The car itself wasn’t that expensive, since it wasn’t running and had extensive water damage, but all the parts? Special tools and equipment? I poured more money into this car than its worth, which is something I never could have done before the hockey funds. Now, if I want something, all I have to do is presspurchase.
“Damn,” Cal says, running his hand over the top of the car, then lowering himself down into the passenger seat. I have to admit, it is a little tight for two hockey players to be in together, but it’s the only black car I own—and the only one that would be appropriate for a stake-out.
“When did you get this?” Cal asks.
The truth is that I bought it the day that Mandy said she wanted to get a divorce. “Few months ago.”
Ten minutes later, we’re taking the exit from the highway and pulling into the far end of the employee parking outside the Frost complex. I back into a spot and cut the lights, drenching us in shadow.
“How do you know she’s going to be here?” Cal whispers, which makes me chuckle. It’s not like, this far from the building, she’d be able to hear him at full volume. He sinks down in his seat, pulling up the hood of his black sweatshirt.
“She always leaves here at nine,” I say, eyes focused on the door she always takes out—conveniently located at the end of a hallway where there’s a little blind spot in the security cameras. It’s things like that—an attention to the security of the building and a particular grace with which she avoids questions—that make me more suspicious.
“Holy shit,” Cal whispers when the door opens at exactly nine and Wren emerges, walking briskly toward a car. No fumbling in a purse or searching for keys. She walks like she’s on a mission, getting in and locking it immediately. We see the red lights flash across the lot.
Cal glances at me. “Do you think she saw us?”
“Nah.” I wait for her to pull out, leave the headlights off as we leave the lot. I never drive the Firebird to the complex, so I’m banking on the fact that she won’t recognize this car.
When Wren takes an exit off the highway and turns left, Cal sucks in a breath through his teeth, glancing over at me, “Kind of a shady part of town. Do you think she knows?”
I roll my eyes at him. “Yeah, dude—that’s the whole point. She knows.”
Cal still looks worried and I want to reach over and shake him. He’s assuming Wren is just new to the area, has no idea what she’s driving into.
He sinks even lower into the seat when we roll down a road riddled with potholes, a few of the streetlamps flickering and casting the place into darkness. Wren makes turn after turn, delving even deeper into the neighborhood, until she takes a left into a Dollar Store parking lot.
“She must be making some sort of deal,” I mutter, turning into the lot and doing my best to steer around the glass on the pavement. “Keep an eye on her, Cal.”
But when I glance at my friend, he has the string on his hood pulled so only his nose is showing. His voice is muffled when he says, “I’m so not here right now. Luca, she’s totally going to see us.”
