Page 81 of On the Line

“I’m guessing you knew the other skiers on the trip?”

“Yeah.” Her voice wavers. “I lost a lot of friends that day.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“The survivor’s guilt is real,” she says. “But I don’t think that’s what you called to talk about.”

“The main reason I called is that I want to make sure I didn’t make any mistakes when I executed the will and trust, especially regarding the house in Brookline.” I decide not to tell her the house wasn’t in the trust, because I don’t want her to consider litigating this. “I know you weren’t a co-owner with Josh, but did you have any money tied up in that house before he died?”

“No.” She lets out another sigh. “He owned the house, and I did most of the work. I met with the contractor, picked out the cabinets and other finishes, took care of ordering everything for him—because I believed him when he said he was remodeling this house because he wanted to live closer to me. We didn’t have any concrete plans for me to move in or anything.”

“Why did you do all this work for him, then?” I ask. It’s none of my business, but the question just slips out.

She coughs out a laugh. “Because he had me fooled. I believed the things he said, believed that he cared about me, so I wanted to help him. The reality is, Josh didn’t care about anyone but himself.”

Isn’t that the truth?

“I’ve been thinking,” she says hesitantly, “about reaching out to Lauren. I have a good amount of money that truthfully should go to her—refunds for all the deposits I put down for house stuff using a debit card that Josh gave me for that purpose. The money’s all been refunded and is just sitting there in a bank account with his name on it. I didn’t know if Lauren knew I existed. If she did, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to hear from me. And if she didn’t know I existed, well, did I want to be the one to tell her the truth about her husband after he’d already died?”

“There’s no way for her to avoid knowing, now,” I tell her. “I have to tell her.”

“I’ll send you the bank info to share with her. Would you also tell her that I’d be open to talking to her, if she wants? I’m guessing she’s living at that house now, because Woody didn’t know I’d broken things off with Josh, so he told me you ended his contract. Out of a morbid sense of curiosity, I drove by one night—I just wanted to see if there was a for sale sign, but instead I saw the Utah plates on the SUV in the driveway.”

I shouldn’t feel a pang of sympathy for the woman who was sleeping with Lauren’s husband, but I do. I’d spent the last thirty-six hours thinking she was the villain. Now I know that she was just another casualty of Josh’s narcissism.

“Okay, I’ll let you know.”

CHAPTER23

JAMESON

The number of fans that turned out for a charity game with a bunch of guys who haven’t played in the NHL for years is a true testament to how deep the Rebels pride runs in Boston. We took the ice to the same fanfare of music, lights, and cheering that I remember from home games. In some ways, it doesn’t feel like it’s been a decade since I did this for a living, in other ways, it feels like a lifetime ago.

The crowd did the Rebels chant at the end of the first two periods like they always do, and now we’re tied 2-2 with only minutes left in the period. The fans are going wild. They can’t decide who to cheer for when it’s Boston v. Boston, so they cheer for everything anyone does. And the fact that there’s nothing on the line but bragging rights means we’re all having a good time on the ice.

Except Donaldson. The man is in his fifties, but he must still skate and run drills every fucking day because he’s as good as or better than the rest of us. And he’s trash-talking my team like we’re not all on the same side here: the side where we do this for fun to raise money for a great organization. No, he’s here to win.

As he brings the puck down the outside, I misjudge his trajectory, so when I cut left he goes to my right. Luckily, our goalie blocks the shot with a shoulder check, and I’m there to grab the rebound. I take it around the back of the net and Donaldson’s right behind me, but I cut him off at the net and get enough separation to bring the puck straight up the middle.

By the time I hit center ice, two of my teammates have caught up to me, and I pass it off to one of them. He takes a shot on goal, but it’s blocked and I’m in the perfect position to get the rebound. Right as I pull my stick back to shoot, I’m checked from behind.

It’s so completely unexpected that I fly forward, face-first, and even though I manage to get one hand out to break the fall, my chin connects with the ice. It hurts like a motherfucker and is bleeding like one too. I hear the collective gasp of the audience as I push up to my knees while holding my blood-soaked chin in one hand. I turn and look up at Donaldson right as the athletic trainer comes up with a towel to put pressure on my wound and helps me to the bench to evaluate the damage.

Both referees and a linesman are on Donaldson and he’s sent to the penalty box with a five minute major, even though there’s less time than that on the clock.

Back on the bench, the athletic trainer says I need to see the team doctor, but I refuse to go to the training room because I don’t want to miss our power play—honestly, my team winning on this power play in the last few minutes of the game would be justice for Donaldson’s infraction.

“You’re probably going to need stitches for this,” the trainer tells me as he cleans the cut, “or you’re going to wind up with a jagged scar.”

“Can you just tape it up for tonight and I’ll take care of it tomorrow?” I ask, holding the gauze he gave me against my chin and hoping the pressure will stop the bleeding.

“I can patch it up, but you’re not going to get as clean of a scar as if you have the doctor stitch it.”

My eyes are still on the ice. “Whatever.”

“Once the bleeding stops, he can finish the stitches up in ten minutes. Why wait?” He crosses his arms, and when I glance over at him, he’s annoyed. I focus back on the ice, where my team has just scored a goal I missed because I’m dealing with the pissy trainer. Why does he care if I have a scar? All I want is to celebrate on the ice with my teammates, and then go see Lauren. That said, she may not like it if I bleed all over her face, so maybe I should take care of this.

“Fine,” I say, eyeing center ice where the players are lined up to shake hands, “but first I’m going back out on the ice to wrap this up.” A cheer rises up from the audience when I skate out to my teammates, still pressing a bloody piece of gauze to my chin.

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