I let out a humorless laugh that hurts my ribs. “Hard to fight when you’re half-drunk and they’ve got bats.”
Harris’s eyebrows go up. “So you’d been drinking.”
“Yeah. Out with teammates. Walked back to the arena to sober up. Figured I’d crash in my car if I weren’t good to drive.”
Ruiz closes his notebook. “And you have no idea why these men attacked you.”
“Nope.”
“Nothing at all,” he presses.
I look him dead in the eye. “I said no.”
They share another glance before Harris pockets his pen. “All right, Mr. Callaghan. We’ll let you rest. If anything comes back to you, give us a call.”
“Sure,” I huff, because what else can I say?
They leave, and the room sinks back into sterile stillness except for the rhythmic beeping at my side. I stare at the ceiling, jaw clenched, breathing through the sharp aches that flare with every movement of my ribs.
Yeah. Like I’m about to tell them what really happened.
Two Irish bastards who crawled out of the shadows to give me the worst hangover of my life for what my fucking father did.
No way in hell I’m handing that story to anyone.
The press already has enough.
“Aprofessional hockey player was brutally assaulted in the team parking garage.”
My swollen, bloodied face has been plastered across every news feed since I hit the ER. Reporters crawling all over it, fans demanding answers, the team issuing vague statements about ‘players’ safety.’
There’s even talk about city leadership cracking down on crime again.
Chicago’s been drowning in crime since the pandemic. Organized, random, desperate, it doesn’t matter. Violence is good headline currency, and apparently, I’m the new poster boy.
Lucky me.
Not exactly the legacy I was going for.
I flip through the news channels on the tiny hospital TV. Every station’s got a variation of the same story, my name, my bruises, my so-called “assault.”
It’s exhausting
But I’m too damn bored to turn the TV off.
And every headline makes my jaw tick harder.
Of course, I know who jumped me.
Browning Family lackeys.
Chicago’s favorite flavor of Irish mafia scum.
Not the slick, movie-quality kind with velvet suits and cigars.
No. These guys are the bargain-bin version.
Big, dumb, loud.
