Page 44 of Angel's Share

Aidan shrugged. “I have no real hockey allegiances. I’d just rather attend sporting events where I don’t freeze my nuts off.”

Jamie slung an arm around his shoulders and drew him closer. “I’ll keep you warm, baby.” And this close, it was easy for Jamie to hold his phone in his lap and show Aidan the live feed from inside Martino’s box, streaming to them from the surveillance bug the advance teams had placed.

Aidan rubbed his ear, activating the comm unit there. “We’re reading,” he told Matt and Rick, who were set up in a nearby concession stand that had been closed for the evening. “Nice work.”

“Now let’s just hope he shows,” Jamie mumbled, eyeing the empty suite. It was fully stocked—trays of snacks and buckets of beer ready to go—but not a single guest in sight. Yet.

A text appeared at the top of Jamie’s phone screen, Angel pinging him with another question about mods to the truck.

Aidan rubbed his ear again. “That was a genius move,” he said with a jut of his chin at Jamie’s text thread with Angel.

“You’re the one who told me about his interest after the chase and about Tom’s history with cars. And you’ve been pretty good with Bev yourself.”

“She’s a cool kid and not a kid at all. What she’s been through...”

“That’s over for her now, one way or the other.” He texted Angel back one-handed with a suggested tweak to his proposed mod, then asked, Everything good there?

A picture appeared, Jamie’s tablet in the foreground, Angel sitting at the table with it, while Izzy, Bev, and Maryanne were in the living room watching a rom-com Jamie recalled seeing previews for. Make it stop, read Angel’s message with the picture.

With any luck, you’re back to school tomorrow. Enjoy the night off while you still can.

He responded with the crying face emoji, at which point Aidan snagged the phone from Jamie and recorded a voice message, in Spanish, telling Angel he couldn’t afford to miss any more Spanish lessons.

Vete a la mierda came right back.

Aidan bit out a laugh as he handed the phone back to Jamie, but beneath the amusement, Jamie could see him struggling. The shake of his hand, the gleam in his eyes, the hope that vibrated under his skin. How much he enjoyed getting to know Angel and Izzy again, Bev too, and how much he wanted it to all work out so they could stay in one another’s lives. Jamie wanted that too, wanted Aidan happy most of all.

He put the phone in the cupholder where they could both see it, then hauled Aidan as close as the armrest between them allowed, his lips pressed against Aidan’s temple just below the brim of his hat. “It’s okay, Irish. I’ve got you.”

They stayed seated close until player introductions and the anthem, and when they sat back down, it was to motion in Martino’s box, finally. Martino was in attendance, dressed in jeans and a black team-branded sweater. Two other people were in the box with him. One a hired guard if Jamie had to guess, the overly muscled, younger man hanging back, while Martino chatted with a suited gentleman closer to the front of the box.

Aidan swiped a hand over his ear, Jamie over his too, the both of them activating their comms just as Rick reported, “We’ve got eyes on.”

No ears on tonight, audio surveillance beyond what they could legally do with so many other people in range and beyond what would be useful with so much background noise, as evidenced by the cheer that went up at the opening face-off.

“ID on the current visitor?” Aidan asked.

“Luca Savoy,” Rick answered so fast he couldn’t have used facial recognition for it. “Former hockey player. Broadcaster now.”

“Someone else is a fan,” Jamie said.

“Lotta frozen-over lakes in the Midwest during the winter,” Rick replied. “Shit for balance on blades, though, so I watched a lot more than I ever played.”

Savoy wasn’t the only former athlete to visit Martino during the first period. Martino’s suite saw a steady stream of comings and goings, the snacks and drinks requiring multiple refills. Some of the faces Jamie recognized—more athletes, some celebrities—others he didn’t but could guess at their business. “You getting good enough looks for facial?” he asked the team.

“Most of them,” Rick replied. “Everyone we’ve run so far is either a celebrity, athlete, or criminal with a rap sheet.”

“Some are two or more of those things,” Matt deadpanned.

“Starting to wonder about this one in particular,” Berat chimed in from his spot at the bowl’s entrance closest to Martino’s suite. “Incoming.”

On cue, a new visitor appeared on screen, one Jamie recalled from last night. And from last summer. Same as both those times, he was dressed all in black again, from his hair, to his leather jacket and jeans, to the bracelets on his wrists and the rings on his fingers.

Aidan seemed to recognize him too. “He was at the party last night, wasn’t he? Who is he?”

“Ryan Lassiter,” Jamie answered. “He’s in some band all the kids love.” Aidan’s brows raced north, colliding with the cap’s rim. Understandably so, Jamie more the movie kind of guy, Aidan the music one, but Aidan’s tastes veered toward Irish punk, not the latest rock-pop sensation. “They’re Levi’s son’s favorite. We ran into Ryan when questioning a suspect on the case for Press this past summer.”

“A case that also involved cargo thefts. And now we’re running into him again, last night with Russo, tonight with Martino, on another stolen goods case.”

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