“I’ll stop by after practice,” I say, rubbing my temple. “Try to talk some sense into her.”
“Appreciate it,” Janet says, and hangs up.
No pleasantries. Just business.
I set the phone down on the counter and stare out the window of my father’s cramped house on the edge of Chicago with achipped White Sox mug warming in hand. The coffee smells like dirt—my half-assed attempt at waking up my brain.
Two tins of Folgers, that’s what my old man left behind as his parting gift to me. His idea of a legacy. Which tastes like shitty memories.
I slept like hell last night.
Truth is, I haven’t slept well since I moved in a few years ago. Never thought I’d end up here, stuck in the house of the man who managed to fuck up my life beyond repair.
He was still alive when I got drafted to the Chicago Reapers.
Alive, but not living much of a life, if you know what I mean.
My old man was a gambling addict with more debt than he could’ve paid off in three lifetimes. There was no way out for him, so he made one for himself and left me a nuclear-sized mess to clean up.
I take another sip of coffee, bitter as the memory of both my parents, one buried, one fading.
And me? I’m just trying to make it through another day without losing what’s left of myself in the middle.
As I scan the street in front of the house, it’s just another gray Chicago morning. A neighbor walks her dog; a few cars roll by, nothing unusual—no sign of the thugs who sometimes camp outside in their dark-windowed Cadillac.
I ditch the shitty coffee and grab my hockey bag. The strap digs into my shoulder as I slip out the front door, keeping my head down like always.
I shove the bag in the back of my old Honda Accord and then slide behind the wheel. The seat groans beneath me, smelling faintly of sweat and motor oil.
I check the rearview before I even start the engine, holding a breath of relief until I’m out of the neighborhood with no one following me.
When did I turn into a paranoid weirdo? Good question.
Probably the day of my dad’s funeral.
I was the only one there—no surprise. He was such a mess of a human that no friends stuck around. I threw some dirt on the casket as it got lowered into the ground, and was halfway to my car when two shady bastards in black suits stopped me.
They told me I was now the proud inheritor of a multi-million-dollar debt, courtesy of“the piece of shit in that box.”Their words. Not mine.
Though I can’t say I disagree.
What Idodisagree with is their transfer of debt.
It’sa bit of a hike from my dad’s place to the arena, but it’s all I can afford right now.
I crank the classic rock station because, yeah, my car’s too damn old for Bluetooth, and I need the noise to drown out everything else in my head.
When I pull into the player’s parking garage, a sleek, red Porsche 911 pulls in next to me.
I sigh as we get out at the same time, both grabbing our bags.
“Connor,” I say blandly.
“Liam,” he says, grinning a perpetual grin. “Why the fuck haven’t you ditched that fucking Honda, dude? Seriously, you’re a first-string professional hockey player, not a public school teacher.”
I pat the dented hood of the silver shitbox. “I’ll drive her until she dies. No need to give up a good thing just because she has a few wrinkles.”
Connor snorts and points at me like I’m selling something. “Ha! I see what you did there, and I appreciate it, but no actual human woman is going to want to get in that thing. If you want pussy, you need something suited to your status in life.”
