“Thanks, Stan.” He claps my shoulder on his way out, the traitor, the deserter, the man who just saved my life by ending his service.
Benson and Blue vanish upstairs together, the cheesy rule-breaking bastards, off to do whatever it is the rules used to forbid. Percy follows me into the kitchen, which is either loyalty or coincidence, and with Percy, it’s never loyalty.
“Just you and me, Pers.”
He glares.
“Step out to cut the shooter’s angle,” I tell him, opening the fridge. “Maximize your net coverage. You’re hugging your line like the post’s gonna leave you.”
“Fuck you, Stan. That’s elementary.”
I shrug into the cold light. “He talks.”
I straighten up and lean on the counter, and I don’t even mean to ask. It just falls out of me. “Hey. Real question. You ever think about it? Breaking the house rules?”
Percy walks out of the room. Just — leaves. Doesn’t dignify it.
“Okay,” I say to the empty kitchen. “Cool talk.” I take a glass down. “What a sensitive little baby.” Honestly, I prefer him not talking. Less anger to deal with.
Then Blue’s voice comes down from the top of the stairs like the wrath of God.
“Sterm! What thefuckis this?”
I chug my water, taking my time. I am at peace. I stroll out of the kitchen.
“That, sir,” I say, looking up at him, “appears to be a framed photograph of your girlfriend.”
He blinks down at me, holding the frame like he doesn’t know whether to throw it or keep it. “What is wrong with you? You hung up a picture of her above the toilet!”
I spread my hands, all generosity with a shit-eating grin on my face. “Figured if you were gonna do your business in there anyway, you’d want her watching over you. Spiritually. Supportively.”
He starts down the stairs three at a time, and I’m already running, already at the front door, because Blue could absolutely take me in a fair fight, but I’m Stanley Ermington, and a fair fight is the one thing I’ll never give a man. I’m fast. I’m a jet. I told you.
I bang out onto the porch and take the steps in one go, screaming like I’ve been stabbed, hit the road barefoot and cut right. He stops at the bottom of the porch, frame raised over his head like a battle-axe.
“Your mom dropped you on your head as a baby!” he roars after me.
“Try again, man!” I yell back, jogging backward. “My dad took one too many pucks to the dick — I was always gonna come out like this!”
He shakes his head, lowers the axe, and starts back inside.
“Don’t break the picture!” I call. “That’s quality gloss!”
Because it is. I zoomed the photo down to just Melly’s face and printed it high-shine, and I’m doing everything in my power not to fold in laughing as he reaches the door. Then a car turns onto Hawthorne Street.
Not just any car. A gorgeous, gleaming, six-figures-of-someone-else’s-money SUV. And there are exactly two people on this street with the means to roll up in something like that.
Me.
Of course.
And Linwood.
I plant myself in the dead center of the road and look right at her through the windshield, because the rules of the universe say she has to look up eventually. I gave her the whole rink earlierand she gave me nothing. The street is mine. The street is fair territory. She’s looking down. At the phone, probably.
Jesus Christ, she’s not looking up.
“Uh,” I say to nobody. The SUV keeps coming. “Linwood.” I wave both arms over my head. Nothing. I’m jumping now, full vertical, barefoot, a grown man with NHL bloodlines doing jumping jacks in the road. “Linwood!”
