Page 23 of Rules of Play

“I swear to God I’m gonna tear that paper and eat it, Shane,” he snapped. “We never won against those fuckers, and I need to be out there.”

I cocked my head with as much compassion as our strict relationship allowed—and I was aware that my transgressions made me a hypocrite. I waited, and then I wrote it down.

Patrick scoffed. “Ask your questions, Aristotle.”

And I did. When did the anger come to him first during this game? What options did he see laid out before him when he chose to slam Dean into the boards? Would he have done it differently? Why hadn’t the threat of punishment—and he had had to be aware of it—prevented him from crossing the line?

In fairness, while still sulky about it, Patrick answered my questions. Early; several; he thought it wasn’t that bad and Coach Webber was being dramatic.

“Do you ever think that reining in your anger out there would help you play with a clearer mind?” I asked.

He shot me a cold, detached look. “Do you even know me? After all this time?”

I didn’t say anything to that, even though his words ripped a hole in my chest the size of Neptune.

“It drives me, Shane,” he said. “That’s exactly what clears my mind. When the fury kicks in, the rest of the world falls off. There’s just the ice and the devils I’m fighting. None of the other things that cloud my mind exist when I’m playing. There’s no confusion out there. There’s no questioning, wondering, thinking about things over and over and over until you’ve thought them right into the goddamn ground and haven’t found an answer. Nothing. Just the puck and the immediate threat.”

I wrote it down, although I didn’t know how with the trembling fit that possessed my fingers.What doubts? What confusion? What are you questioning, Patrick?But I held my tongue. Perhaps it would have been easily explained by the fact that I needed to ask him tough questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to hear his answers. I couldn’t bring myself to use that old excuse again.

Patrick went back in to play in the final period, his drive a little quelled, his fury burning a little dimmer, and his performance taking somewhat of a hit. It was like the questioning he had mentioned was running strong during the last part of the game.

Days came and days went. A thing I had never thought of, never predicted would be a problem, started to appear. Patrick was a fact in my life. More than that, he was a force.

I sometimes wondered what being an undercover cop was like. Sure, you prepared a lot, practiced your cover story until it felt like you’d lived it your entire life, and you went in. But after you had stayed there, after you had worn another person’s skin for so long, how did you ever get out of it?

I needed to know this answer.

I needed to know how they returned to their old lives. How did they leave it all behind? What thread of their true selves did they hold onto throughout the missions in order to be able to drag themselves back out?

How was I going to live when this was over and Patrick no longer needed to be a part of my daily life? His presence was so overwhelming and all-encompassing that I couldn’t remember what life was like before him, and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like after him.

My studies revolved around Patrick Callahan. My days were shaped around him. My desires gravitated toward him. My dreams were filled with him. Until I told myself he would be off the hook in a month and a half. Then, the future was a bleak dystopia where I would be on my own again, just surviving.

The three days in Detroit, where the Saints played against the Titans on Saturday, arrived. I’d packed lightly for the weekend but brought all the notebooks and reference books I could put into my backpack. The equipment the team carried took up way too much space to leave room for me.

The house the team got to use over the weekend was incredible. It beat any hotel by a mile. It was a large place with a sprawling open-concept living and dining room and a kitchen on the ground floor, a hot tub and a small, private gym in the back, and an upper floor with rooms the players shared.

I carried the key to room four while the Saints unloaded their luggage. It was a delightful one. I shut the door as soon as I stepped inside, worried about having to do small talk with someof the Saints I didn’t know well if they appeared in the hallway in front of my room.

A big double bed dominated the room, and a large wardrobe was built into the wall on the other side of it. Nightstands, lamps, and a canopy over the bed mounted to four high bedposts were all in a semi-rustic style, matching the hardwood floor and the old, burgundy rug covering it. A small wooden table was flanked by two vintage armchairs. Beside one of the chairs was a door to a private bathroom, and that was a scream. An incredible walk-in shower and an elegant cream-tile design made me want to live in this room for the rest of my life.

Westmont had generously agreed to cover the expenses for the purpose of my research, trapping me deeper into having to deliver the thesis, and I couldn’t be happier. These hockey players truly lived a good life on the road. I wondered what it cost to build this many rooms for all the players.

Then, like a saw cutting through the wood, a key zipped into the lock, and every hair on the back of my neck stood. A double bed should have been a giveaway. Dear God, was I sharing with some random Saint? They couldn’t do that, could they?

The door swung open, and I turned to face the intruder, only for my heart to split in half when Patrick’s eyes shone and a grin stretched his lips from ear to ear. “Hey, roomie. Whoa, this is nice.”

I swallowed the tightening knot in my throat. Was this heaven or hell? It was somehow both in equal measures.

I glanced at the bed, and Patrick’s gaze followed.

“Oh, that’s gonna be fun,” he said.

I couldn’t see how.

“Be warned, I kick in my sleep,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll be sore and bruised by Sunday.” He choked a little as he said this, sparking an unholy image in my head that must have crossed his mind.

“We’re…sharing?” I asked.

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