“I’m serious, McQuaid. Walk out of here and go straight to your truck.” Johnny’s face held a grave look. “Do not go near him and do not talk to him, got it?”
“Yeah,” I said distractedly.
Johnny licked his lips and looked back at his brother. “Should I escort you out? Or can you be trusted on your own?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. I don’t want a run-in with him either.”
Johnny offered me a handshake, then cringed when he realized my right hand was currently tied up.
“Asshole,” I muttered with a smirk.
Johnny cracked a grin and slapped my left shoulder. “We’ll talk soon. Right to your truck,” he said again.
Keeping my head down, I powered through the locker room hallway, walking past the first spot I ever talked to Ali.
I made it all the way across the lobby without passing another person, but right before pushing open the glass door, I heard, “Woah! Are you number 26? Guys! He’s number 26! It’s JP McQuaid, I swear!”
My eyes fell closed. I wassoclose. I could see my truck. But I couldn’t ignore kids.
Turning quickly, I spotted a couple sweaty-haired kids shouldering their heavy hockey bags and holding concession stand slushees. I gave them a quick wave and all three of their mouths dropped open.
“Itishim! Wait, this is crazy!” one of the kids said, slapping his other friend in the chest. “Can you wait a sec? I need you to sign something!”
Before I could answer, all three kids dropped their hockey bags and scattered.
Shit.
My body hummed with the need to get out of here, but I couldn't just bail on them. Looking around the lobby, I breathed a little easier knowing that Rossi wasn’t around—yet.
Two of the kids rushed back to me holding sharpies and hats.
“Might have to hold it while I sign, kinda busted up at themoment,” I said, gesturing to my sling.
“Ooh, yeah, I saw that game. Kinda a shitty move for that guy to trip you, eh?”
I cracked a grin. “Are you old enough to use the word ‘shitty’?”
“What are you gonna do about it, tell my mom?” the kid joked.
“Maybe,” I said, struggling to keep a straight face. “I’ll prolly find her if I walk this way.” I started to my left.
The kid’s eyes bugged out while his friend cracked up laughing. “No, no, no, I was just playing, you don’t have to do that.”
“All right,” I laughed, “lemme see that hat.” Signing quickly, I added, “You guys played a great game. But make sure you have fun out there, yeah? That’s what makes a player go from good to great.”
They both nodded hurriedly before taking off.
And now I was standing there awkwardly waiting on the third kid. The only sign of him was his hockey bag by my feet. Looking down, I spotted the number four stitched to the side of the bag. So this was the little leading scorer.
“Where are you, kid?” I muttered to myself, looking at the lobby doors with longing.
“See mom! I told you he was here!” a kid shouted.
Relief bloomed in my chest.
But it was short lived.
Trailing the kid was a young mom dressed in leggings and an oversized Centre Ice zip-up. She had bright blue eyes and dark auburn hair, and she was holding hands with Mark Rossi.
