“Honestly, I never could keep track. They switched schools as often as they changed majors. The longer they stayed in school, the longer my father paid child support.” I force a laugh. “Ten years for undergraduate degrees, in how to live off your dad and pretend you’re better than everyone else without ever breaking a nail or a sweat.”
“Cunt, works.” He deadpans.
“I can find out if you think it’s relevant to whatever issues Claudia was having with?—”
“Kyle’s fiancé and the psychiatrist that owns the company that several teams use, so they can hire psychologists and not psychiatrists and still look like they care about mental health. No shade on the Bears, they give a damn, but they may be connected. Any connection we can figure out will help.” He slows to a stop at a light. “Can you keep a secret?”
I nod, “Of course.”
“Love The Bridgeview, but I was thinking if the house is done, I’d love to see Claudia come down that staircase and get married on Waverly.”
Tears immediately fill my eyes, “Oh my God, that’s perfect. It would make Paul so happy, full circle, you know?”
“He and Patsy get married there?”
Oh. My. God. I am a moron.
“Right, that doesn’t make sense, I guess.”
“Makes about as much sense as me thinking she says yes there, we’re getting all the good vibes from a home where love never died.”
“I love that.”
“Feel like I’m in the damn government, with all this sneaking around,” Paul chuckles as we make our way through a service corridor of the Bears’ arena.
I don’t laugh. I try. It comes out thin.
My media badge is tucked into my coat, my face neutral, my spine straight. On the outside, I look like I belong anywhere I decide to stand. On the inside, I feel like I’m walking toward something I don’t want to know.
“Relax, Sassy,” Paul adds gently, glancing at me. “If it were bad-bad, Hugo wouldn’t be meeting us here. He’d be behind a desk with soundproof walls and a non-disclosure thicker than my thigh.”
“That’s… not comforting,” I murmur.
We pass through a security checkpoint and are waved through without a fuss. Paul smiles and nods at the men stationed there, not flashy, not entitled, just familiar. They know hockey. Its history. It’s ghosts. And they remember who he is, even at eighty-four, even when he stopped coming here after Patsy passed, even with the years softening his features. Respect like that doesn’t fade. It settles in and stays, and it still has that effect on people, even now.
In the elevator, I rest my head on his shoulder, “You ever wish you could go back and change something?”
“Years ago, maybe,” He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Standing here now, not a chance.”
“I wish I’d gone the whole journalism route. Told stories that matter, raw and gritty, no fluff. If this all goes away, I’m going to do that.”
“It’s all going to be fine, kid.”
“If it isn’t, you know what would make it better?” I look up at him.
“Marrying a Russian hockey player who can afford the lifestyle you’re accustomed to?” He jokes.
“Telling your story to the world.”
“Nobody wants to hear that crap.” He chuckles.
“I’m sure glad I got to.”
“Jesus Sassy, you’re gonna make me cry again, and I can’t do that when we’re heading into a meeting with that lawyer who’s soaking us for thousands an hour.”
I smile at him, “Us?”
“You can’t cover it, I can,” He winks. “Eh, just gotta be quick.’
