Page 68 of Offside Bride

Today’s practice session went long. All I want is a hot shower and maybe to curl up with Maggie on the couch. But the second I step inside my house, I know something’s off.

Maggie’s perched on the edge of the couch, ramrod straight, her knuckles white as she grips a throw pillow. Her face is a mask of forced calm, but I can see the fear in her eyes.

Then I notice them. Two guys who look like they stepped straight out ofThe Sopranosare lounging in my armchairs, helping themselves to what I’m pretty sure is my last beer. There are half-eaten sandwiches on the coffee table, and I swear I catch a whiff of the prosciutto I was saving for a special occasion.

My blood runs cold. This has to be connected to my father’s mess.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand. The words come out sharper than I intended, a mix of confusion and anger.

The larger of the two men, a guy with slicked-back hair and a nose that’s clearly been broken more than once, raises his beer in a mock toast. “Ah, the hotshot hockey star! We were just getting acquainted with your lovely wife here.”

Maggie’s eyes flash a warning at me, silently pleading. I want nothing more than to rush to her side, but I force myself to stay put, not wanting to make any sudden moves.

“Yeah?” I say, keeping my voice steady as I slowly move closer to Maggie. “And who might you be?”

The other guy, wiry with a face like a ferret, smirks. “Let’s just say we’re old friends of your dad’s. Thought we’d stop by for a little…chat.”

“I think you gentlemen have…delighted my wife enough,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “How about we continue this conversation elsewhere?”

“Oh, we’re not going anywhere just yet. You see, we have some unfinished business to discuss. Family business.”

I feel my jaw clench, trying to keep my cool. Maggie’s sitting there like she’s been carved from stone. How long have these mobsters been here, in my home, alone with my wife? And she made sandwiches for them! It’s such a Maggie thing to do.

“Look, fellas,” I say, forcing a casual tone. “I appreciate you dropping by for an impromptu beer tasting, but I’m not exactly sure what you’re getting at.”

“Good sandwiches,” the skinny one says, patting his stomach and wiping his mouth with a napkin, as if they’re just two friends visiting. “The beer on the other hand, not the best.”

“How about we skip the pleasantries and get to why you’re really here?”

The bigger guy, who I’ve mentally dubbed ‘Nose Job’, chuckles. “Impatient, aren’t we? Just like your old man.”

“Yeah, well, unlike dear old Dad, I’ve got a game tomorrow and beauty sleep to catch up on. So, spill it.”

The lead Italian leans back, wiping his mouth with a napkin (from my own kitchen, of course), and says, “Let’s get right to business. Your old man, Brian O’Malley, he’s got something that belongs to us. We want it back.”

Maggie remains silent, clearly terrified but holding it together.

I try to keep my voice steady as I say, “And you thought, what? That I keep all of Dad’s stolen goods in my trophy case? Hate to break it to you, boys, but I’m not exactly in the family business. I'm just a guy who’s good at putting a puck in a net.”

The big guy responds with a smirk. “That’s not how it works, kid. You’re Brian’s son, and that makes you next in line. We just need our goods back. Simple as that. Tell us where it is, and we’ll be on our way.”

“I don’t know about any goods. Listen, my dad’s an accountant for the Irish. He’s a nobody. You need to go talk to whoever’s in charge."

The Italians exchange a look then burst into laughter, one slapping the coffee table.

“An accountant? Is that what he told you? You really don’t know, do you? Your daddy’s the Irish Mob Kingpin, kid.”

The whole room tilts sideways. When Dad went to prison, Siobhan and I were told he was working for the Irish as their money guy. That’s it. Not that he was running the whole operation!

These guys might be lying to get under my skin, but after this insane year of watching my whole reality fall down like a house of cards, I’m not completely surprised by this new information. Now I’ve got Italian mobsters making themselves comfortable in my living room. What is my life?

The big one puts his feet up on the coffee table and sneers. “See, Brian double-crossed us, and seeing as you’re his kid, you’re gonna get us what he owes.”

I shake my head, desperately trying to make sense of it all. “No, you’ve got it wrong. I’m just a hockey player, not…not that.”

They smirk, clearly enjoying the power shift. The skinny Italian says, “Well, you’re not just a hockey player anymore.”

My mind is reeling. How did I go from worrying about our game against Quebec to being thrust into the middle of a mobwar? I glance at Maggie. She’s pale with fear…and also looks a little pissed off.

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