Page 212 of Waiting Game

Unsurprised she doesn’t know the old-school wrestler, I mumble, “Never mind. Zebras are in this year.”

“Did they ever go out of fashion?”

I click my fingers in agreement. “This is why I like you.”

“You’re easily pleased,” she teases with a small grin. “I noticed that you go whackier with the clothes when you’re tired.”

I blink at her. “Nah.”

Her shoulder hitches. “Could be wrong.”

As my mind gets to work on whether or not she’s right, I decide I don’t want an answer and, instead, shift tacks. “Where’s the memorabilia?”

“Back office. There’s a lot of stuff. I grabbed it and dumped it on the desk. I need to dust it. We never touched it for fear it’d fall apart.”

“I’m starting to see why Chuck had to bribe the health inspector.”

She snorts.

“Mind if I check it out?”

“It’s a mess, but sure. I need to clean up some of the brushes, then I’ll be with you. The walls made them dirtier than the paint did.” She steps over to the decorator’s table, where she’s got a bottle of paint thinner waiting for her to pour into a bucket.

As she plops the brushes into the liquid, I check out the signed Gretzky jersey on the countertop before heading for the back office, scanning the collection of arcade games as I go.

There’s aBad Dudesthat has me smiling fondly as I think back to the times we used to hang out at the arcade when I wasbilleting with the Bukowskis. But the four-slotNeo Geohas me arching a brow—Chuck liked some niche shit.

A belief that’s confirmed when I see the state of the office. “Wow, you weren’t fucking kidding!”

“About it being dirty?” she hollers.

“No, about dumping and running.”

There’s a shit ton more stuff than I expected. The desk is full of it and it’s heaped up in a pile that promises a memorabilia landslide.

That reminds me: “I forgot to bring it with me but in the car, I got Kinnock from Chicago to sign his helmet.”

“Oh! Thank you!” she shouts. “You didn’t have to do that.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, of course, I didn’t.”

Seeing as she’s figured out I’m lying about not being able to balance on the ice, though my spinning momentumislacking, I have to do something to help her, and if that means scalping signed memorabilia from old teammates, then that’s what I’ll do.

No way in hell I can cope with?—

I push a forceful brake on that thought.

She’ll do what she has to do.

She’s a responsible adult.

She can lead her life how she wants.

She has bills to pay, a bar to run, and staff who need roofs over their heads.

Even if I hate every fucking second of it.

So long as I’m along for the ride with her, that’s all that matters.

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