He laughed. “Love hasn’t mellowed you one bit, eh?”
It’s not love.Except when I thought about how safe I’d felt in Zeke’s arms, there in his kitchen, I had to wonder if maybe a bit of love was creeping in around the edges.
A bunch of the other guys circled by and tapped my pads as we took the ice, in silent support. Hopefully the crowd would assume it was for luck with the shutout. Yabby kept his distance, but that was no big surprise. I wondered if Zeke noticed anything, up there in the stands. He’d watched enough of my games online to know that cheerleading from the guys wasn’t our normal.
The game. Focus on the game.I’d be damned if I’d let the evening end in a loss.Fuck Mr. Smith and the cops and Uncle Wayne.
Determination was no substitute for goals, though, and eventually, Iwasdamned. The Archers scored on a bad bounce— Hobbes sliding to block a shot and deflecting the puck past me off his skate. He stood, his whole big body drooping, as the goal horn sounded. “Shit. Fitzer, so sorry.”
I whacked his skate with my stick, but not hard. “Make up for it. Go score a goal.”
Only we didn’t. They scored on our empty net, and when the game ended with me back in the crease, we were down two-zip and had to take the loss.
I pulled my mask off and threw it to the ice, then squirted water down my throat. I couldn’t help glancing up at the stands, but the seats were full, this being a weekend game. The close score meant fans were just beginning to head to the exits and I couldn’t spot Zeke in the crowd. A couple of rainbow signs for Docker drooped as the fans rose to leave. Scooping up my mask, I power-skated to the gate. Our equipment manager was waiting, and he held out his hand. “Let me check that helmet.”
Translation— quit having tantrums.I shoved my brain bucket against his chest, but made myself mumble, “Thanks,”before trudging past. A smart player never got on the bad side of the equipment guys.
The locker room was a quiet place. I dropped to my seat, soaked with sweat, and began taking off my gear. My breath rasped in my dry throat. I’d left everything I had out on the ice, and we’d still lost. I had no idea what that would mean. Mr. Smith had wanted a loss, and we’d handed him one, but anyone who knew hockey could tell that wasn’t my doing.Right? Anyone can tell?
Even Mr. Smith?I could tell him it was just smart, once we were already losing, for me to not make it worse. Plausible deniability. He should be happy. He wouldn’t realize I was off the chain. And the cops should be happy, as long as Mr. Smith followed through.
My head hurt. Also my left hip and some other bits I’d put between my net and Archer shots. My chest ached.
Now what?echoed in my brain in sixteen different iterations, and I couldn’t focus on any of them.
In the showers, I couldn’t help glancing around, wondering if anyone was standing farther away or turning their back to hide their junk from the new gay guy. I couldn’t tell. We were all beat and subdued, trying to wash off a loss to the second-worst team in hockey under the hot water. With me being slower to get my gear off, some of the guys were done before I even got started. Yabby was one of them, slipping out of the shower room as I entered. A couple of others too. I tried not to read too much into it.
As I dried off and dressed, a few of the guys came by to mumble what amounted tosorryandcongratulations for outing yourself. Sully insisted on giving me a bro-hug and promised they’d all kick ass the next time Zeke came to a game. Hobbes told me I should let him know if there was anything he could do. Everything felt uncomfortable, like I was about tojump out of my skin, but I wasn’t sure if that was the coming out, or the anticipation of not knowing what Mr. Smith and Uncle Wayne would do.
Zeke wasn’t meeting up with me outside. We’d agreed that I’d drive my own car, in case someone from Smith wanted to approach me. Last thing, before heading out the door, I stuck a small GREC voice recorder on my lapel. Just the size of a quarter and made to look like a maple-leaf flag pin, it was my hope for catching something incriminating. The tracker was still in Grandpa’s truck, and Zeke had arranged to hide a microphone in there too.
Valencia might’ve handed me off to underlings, but she’d expedited warrants. Then the GREC guys said they didn’t have the manpower to do more than give me a couple of devices and wish me luck. Come back if I got some evidence.
Zeke had growled when I told him that. Literally growled, which shouldn’t have been hot but was. He’d used my tracker app to find Grandpa’s truck where it was parked outside some seedy motel, and had his coworker Olivia put the bug in it, rage-texting afterwards about how it took them all of half an hour, and how the GREC could’ve done it easily.
I wasnotfeeling secure about how the GREC had my back. But I knew Zeke did.
The evening was still warm when I stepped out through the arena doors at last. I’d hung about till late, hoping to shake off any fans. Tonight of all nights, I wasn’t in a mood to play nice.
I unbuttoned my suit jacket, glad to see the parking lot emptying out. When I reached my car, I unlocked the door, then froze. A thick, brown envelope sat on the passenger seat, where only an empty energy bar wrapper had been when I got out. I slammed the door and spun in a circle, looking around. No one seemed to be paying me any attention, and I didn’t see UncleWayne or any short, slimy suit guy. Moving behind a big SUV a few spaces over, I pulled out my phone.
Zeke answered on the first ring. “Callum. What’s up?”
“There’s an envelope in my car. I think it’s the money.”
“Call Iverson. He’s the agent in charge.”
“He thinks I’m stupid and a waste of time.”
“No, he doesn’t.” When I said nothing, Zeke conceded, “Okay, maybe, but I bet he thinks everyone is stupid. He’s still in charge.”
“What do you think I should do? Should I count the money? Call Uncle Wayne?”
“Don’t touch the envelope. We’ll dust it for prints. Otherwise… You know what? I’m going to conference Iverson in on this call.”
I would’ve said no, but the phone was already ringing, then Iverson answered, “Evans? I’m busy. You got something important for me?”
Zeke said, “I have Callum on the line. He got a delivery. Tell him, Callum.”
