I sidestep a group of tourists taking a selfie in front of a flower stall—matching “Barcelona Babes” T-shirts, matching fanny packs, the whole nine yards—and catch a glimpse of my reflection in a café window. Baseball cap pulled low. Faded gray T-shirt with a small tear near the hem. Dark jeans. The post-season haircut—shorter on the sides, longer on top—hidden under the cap.
Generic. Forgettable. Exactly what I’m going for.
Good.
I take a breath and adjust the straps on my backpack. The weight of the cash inside feels heavier than it should. Fifty thousand dollars. I can’t believe I’m bailing him out. Again?—
Someone slams into me.
Hard.
The impact sends me stumbling forward, my sneakers skidding on the smooth cobblestones, and I barely catch myself. Smooth, Brody. Real smooth. I look up just in time to see a guy in a dark hoodie sprinting past me. Dark hoodie. In Barcelona. In the late afternoon. In the heat. Because that’s not suspicious at all.
He’s weaving through the crowd like he’s got somewhereveryimportant to be, which—spoiler alert—usually means he’s runningfromsomething, nottosomething.
What the?—
And then I see her.
A woman—mid-twenties, maybe—standing about ten feet away. Her hand is still outstretched like she’s reaching for something that’s no longer there. Her face is frozen in pure shock.
She’s wearing a sundress, blue with tiny white polka dots, and flat sandals. Her purse strap is broken, dangling uselessly from her shoulder.
Oh.
Oh.
Hoodie guy just stole her purse.
And I don’t think. Which is probably for the best, because if I thought about it, I’d remember I have fifty thousand dollars in cash on my back and a father waiting for me and approximately zero time for heroics.
But something about the look on her face flips a switch in my brain.
And I run.
The backpack bounces against my spine—fifty thousand dollars, Kane. You’re running with fifty thousand dollars in cash—but I ignore it. My sneakers pound against the cobblestones. Years of hockey training kick in—muscle memory, reflexes, all the countless hours in the gym and on the ice finally paying off in the form of…purse-chasing.
The thief is fast, but I’m faster. I vault over a café chair—someone yelps—dodge a family with strollers, and nearly take out a flower display. Petals scatter everywhere, and I mentally apologize to the vendor, who’s shouting something that definitely isn’t “good job, American tourist.”
The street musician stops playing. The silver statue breaks character to watch. Tourists scatter.
And honestly? This is the most alive I’ve felt inmonths.
Which says something deeply concerning about my life, but we’ll unpack that later.
The thief darts into a side alley—narrow, lined with graffiti—and I follow. The alley smells like stale beer and poor life choices.
He stumbles over a trash bag.
I grab the back of his hoodie and slam him against the wall.
Not hard. Just…encouragingly.
“Bad idea, man,” I say, breathing hard.
He stares at me for half a second, then throws the purse at my feet.
Smart kid.
