Page 7 of Playoff
That was decent of him. But after ten years, he might even believe I knew nothing. I’d never known, not until the news was everywhere.
I followed him to the small entryway. He opened the door and paused to look at me again. “The team needs you, with Ducky out. Might make your last name popular up here.”
I wasn’t taking on the burden of the whole team. Hockey was my job. I was good at it and I made money playing it, but I didn’t expect more of the sport than that.
“I’ll do my best,” I told him.
He nodded and wandered down the hall to the elevators. Once he was gone, I closed the door and pulled in a long breath.
I should be used to these visits. After so many years, they were just a formality. Some of the officers who talked to me, especially in the beginning, had been bristling with suspicion. I was sure someone, somewhere, kept track of my calls and my online presence, such as it was. I didn’t do social media, not anymore. Too many people wanted to use me, to vent their anger, or to recover what they’d lost. I changed phone numbers every few months and lived in buildings with security.
My parents had victimized Canadians, so in the US, the interest was minimal. But coming back here? I’d have to find someplace else to stay than the hotel. It was too easy for someone to gain access.
I still had a few hours, maybe till morning, before the trade was announced and those wronged people discovered I was in Toronto, where many of them lived. I picked up my jacket, insufficient as it was, and put my room key in my pocket. After a moment of consideration, I left my phone behind.
While I still could, I wanted to drink in anonymity. Enjoy the closest thing I would have to freedom for months. I’d need to find a bar without a television though. The trade news was coming out soon. I was surprised it wasn’t out now.
Chapter 4
To avoidance
Jess
* * *
I almost ran back to the bathrooms at the Top Shelf. There was an exit, leading into an alley. I'd have bet all the money I had that Justin left that way.
The hallway was quiet, with no lineups for the restrooms. I pushed the exit door and checked the sidewalk outside. It had started to snow. I stepped out and drew my coat tighter around me, the January wind trying to find its way through my clothes. There was a dusting of white on the pavement, little enough that if it had been warmer, it would have melted on contact with the ground. Justin's boot prints led to the main sidewalk where they were lost in other tracks and additional snow.
What was I supposed to do? He might have gone home to the condo. He might have found another bar, though that was less likely. The players on the team were too well known, and he wouldn't want to talk about the trade with anyone. Knowing my twin, he would walk, possibly for hours, venting his anger and frustration physically until he was tired.
I sighed, debating options, before turning toward our place. I'd check the bars on the next couple of blocks, just in case. If I didn't find him, I would call a ride to go home and wait for him. He had to show up sometime.
The snow fell more thickly. I shivered. I hadn't dressed for a hike in Toronto in January. Our condo wasn't far from a subway stop, and I’d assumed we would get a ride back. Then again, I’d assumed we were done with the Denbrowskis messing up our lives.
I passed a couple of noisy bars. One had a big television with the Canadian Sports Network on, pictures of Alek Denbrowski and the traded Blaze players on the screen. Denny had long hair and a full beard, like some kind of mountain man or lumberjack. A good-looking one. I wrenched my gaze away. His appearance didn’t matter. Handsome or plain, wearing rags or an expensive suit like Cooper would change nothing. What his family had done to mine, and how this was still affecting us was the important thing. Denny, in Toronto, was going to mess up our family dynamics badly. Technically not his fault, but the name was enough to twist my stomach in knots.
I kept walking, telling myself to find the nearest subway stop or call up Lyft and go home. But going home meant dealing with Justin, and most tryingly, our parents, once they heard. Being cold was better than that.
I shivered. I'd have to either go home or warm up somewhere else because my toes and fingers were starting to tingle.
Someone stepped out of a smaller bar, warm air releasing onto the sidewalk. I checked inside. There wasn't a lot of noise. Dark paneling, gold lights fairly dim, and no televisions. No talking heads discussing the trade for Denbrowski. No hockey jerseys anywhere that I could see.
Maybe Justin had found this place. I could stop for a minute. Warm up. Postpone going home a little longer.
Once inside, I took in a lungful of warm air. Notes of whiskey, wet wool, and cologne. Whatever music was playing was muted, and only low-voiced conversations could be heard. No sign of my twin though.
I was tired. Tired of being the person my family needed. So tired of managing the four of us and the stress that involved. As soon as word of this trade spread, I'd hear from our parents. Justin would stop talking. I'd have to handle the three of them, and I had my own problems. The prospect felt overwhelming.
I decided to take an hour and prioritize my own shit.
I braced my shoulders and headed to the back where a few barstools were empty. I didn’t want to sit at a table on my own because company was the last thing I wanted. I unbuttoned my coat, pulled off my gloves and boosted myself up on a stool. When the bartender, an older woman with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, came over, I asked for bourbon on the rocks. She didn't react, just got to work and soon the glass was in front of me.
I stared at the dark liquid surrounding a large cube of ice. It was pretty. I wrapped a hand around it, lifting it up. "To you, Mrs. Garvin." Then I took a swallow.
I almost choked on the burn. Whoa. I was not a whiskey drinker, though my client was. Had been. Despite her cancer diagnosis, she was a strong woman. She’d been widowed for twenty years and thrived on her own. She had a sharp mind and loved bourbon. Hearing she'd died hurt. Yes, she'd only been a client, but we'd connected. I'd helped her when she knew she didn't have long to live, making sure her finances were set up the way she wanted them.
Ordering the bourbon for her seemed like a fitting tribute. But now I had a glass of bourbon to deal with. I swirled it around, hoping the melting ice cube would dilute it enough to make it drinkable.
