Page 11 of Taking It To Overtime

“That your mom?” Spags asks. He’s wearing what I can only call a manic smile. The kind that immediately raises my hackles and spikes my blood pressure. “I’ve been waiting all day to meet the lovely Vivian.”

I growl at him.

Literally. Like a dog.

The idiot rubs his hands together and cackles.

“You boys make it here okay?” My mom’s voice floats up the stairs and I donotlike the twinkle in Spags’ eyes. Not one bit. Even when I know he’s just messing with me.

“No,” I say, trying to keep the word low enough that my mom won’t overhear the warning. “Don’t even think—”

“No?” Apparently I wasn’t quiet enough. “That’s strange. Dad’s car is out front. Was there a problem?”

Spags flops backward on the bed, a fist pressed to his mouth to hide the howls of laughter.

This isn’t going to work. I’m going to kill him—probably before the end of the week—and then I’ll have to bury his body in the backyard. Knowing my luck, I’ll probably pull something or get caught. Not only would I be depriving the team of the rookie, but myself, too. We can’t afford to lose two centers, especially not the ones from our first and second line. Although this kid might very well take the first line spot from me this season. That thought doesn’t sting like it once did.

“You should see your face.” Spags gasps for air. “You’re actually plotting my death right now, aren’t you?”

More like planning for the cleanup rather than the actual murder, but I frown harder, knowing he’s read me like a fucking book.

“Don’t worry Dad. We both know you’d miss me too much.” He props himself up on his elbows. “And I’m sure your momis great. I love an older woman and I can objectively say she’s probably a smoke show, but I also know she’s happily married.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and huff out a breath. The temptation to pull out my phone and text Vic to come get the kid is almost overwhelming. How bad could it really be?

Hi Vic, it’s me.

I know you’re on your honeymoon and are most definitely screening my calls, but would you mind swapping custody with me?

I’m fantasizing about murdering the idiot.

And other things, my brain helpfully supplies.

Oh, and Vera’s here. Send help. I’m going down hard.

Yeah, that would go over real well. Jack is a good kid. He means well. But he also has the preternatural knack for finding any crumb or molehill of trouble and turning it into fucking Mt. Everest. He’s like a toddler with unlimited access to Mountain Dew. Occasionally we can trust him out of sight, but the silence is dangerous. After a near miss with a solicitation charge, a close call only charisma can counteract, it was universally agreed that Jack Spaeglin needed a keeper. And I can’t complain. I only have to handle him for the duration of Vic’s honeymoon, and Quinn and Erik had him right until the moment they put him on the plane.

“Vera, on the other hand,” Spags taps his index finger on the wooden frame of a picture on the bedside table. Another one of the two of us, older this time, dressed for her prom. I’m looking at her like….well, it doesn’t matter now. I really should tell myparents to get a photo album like normal people. “I could shoot my shot with her. I’ve been told I’m charming.”

Red bleeds into the edges of my vision and I blink it back.She is not yours. The words shudder through my brain, echoing in the cavernous space between my ears. He’s goading me. He’s getting to me. He knows he is and I can’t let him see how much.

“She will chew you up and spit you out on the ice.”

Spags’ laugh is too bright, too loud for this small space. His hand drops away from the photo and I feel mine unclench. I hadn’t even noticed I’d balled them into fists. My palms sting from the tiny indentations left by the sharp edges of my nails.

“That’s half the fun, though.” He winks.

An aneurysm.

I’m going to have an aneurysm and die and it will be all Jack Spaeglin’s fault. I can see my tombstone now.

“Go.” I point to the guest room door and Jack skirts past me, still shaking with laughter.

I stand for a minute, sucking air down my parched throat. There’s something wrong with me. A cold. The flu.Something. My heart rate is higher than it should be, my core body temperature raised. I’m having trouble forming words, breathing, putting together coherent thoughts. Which also means I have to be nice to Spags. If I’m really out of commission, he might have to take over the heavy lifting with the guest coaching spot next week. It’ll be okay. I’ll drink fluids. Rest. I’ve never missed a practice because of illness. I will not start now with this youth program.

Spaeglin’s footsteps thunder down the stairs and I should probably go be the one to introduce my mother to her newest rescue. She has a good sense of humor and he’s relatively harmless, but he’s still Jack.

I’m at the top of the stairs when I head back into my old bedroom and grab both pictures of Vera. I slide them into the pocket of my hoodie. Just for safe keeping.

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