Page 147 of The Home Grown
“Well, it’s probably a good idea that you get home tonight. Like, as soon as you can.”
“I’m a little busy?—”
“The police are here, mate.”
The words land like a puck to the groin. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Ellie sits up beside me, eyes wide.
And just like that, the best night of my life is over.
Chapter Thirty
BETTSY
I always picturedmy career ending because of an injury—a snapped ligament, eye injury, shattered bone. Something dramatic. Something I could point to. Something I couldblame.
I’d be one of those washed-up has-beens, sitting in the stands yelling about the youth and how they should play—the bitterness of my forced retirement getting the better of me.
But this? This is beyond anything I could have imagined for myself. Whispers, headlines, media scandal, a bitter ex … though, that being said… it’s my fault. All this is my fault. It’s not how I want to go out, it’s not how I imagined my career ending, but it’s my fault.
And by the look on Hutch’s face, he’s thinking exactly the same thing as me:you did this to yourself, Betts.
“They didn’t stick around long,” Hutch says. “But they left this.”
He hands me a piece of paper: flimsy, see-through almost, black ink scribbled in such a way that has me squinting to read the writing.
“Voluntary interview?” I say. “What do they mean, I need to attend avoluntary interview?”
“They sort of implied it would be in your best interest to do it sooner rather than later,” he says. “You know, go down to the station.”
I groan, the sickness I’ve been feeling the entire journey home increasing tenfold.
“And they didn’t give you any more detail?”
“No—well…” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “…the copper sort of slipped up, really. He said your name came up in an ongoing investigation, but I’m not sure he was meant to tell me that.”
“My name came up? What the hell does that mean?”
I’m trying to work out how Rochelle would have played this. How she would have layered on my guilt while giving her version of events; the epic sob-story.
“I dunno, mate. Maybe just go and see what they want.”
I reach into my pocket for my phone, perching myself on the arm of the sofa as I unlock the screen. It’s almost eleven, but I send a quick text to Ellie, telling her I’m home and not to worry, then I call Johnny, desperate for him to tell me what to do.
He answers within a few rings, and once I check Kelly isn’t listening, keen on saving her the worry too, I explain the situation, forcing my voice to stay level.
“I’ll meet you in the stairwell,” he says. “I’ll drive you and we can get this thing squared away. Don’t worry.”
Honestly, telling me not to worry is laughable. But I force myself to keep breathing. Deep and controlled.
I keep it up while telling Hutch that I’ll see him later. And while I make my way to meet Johnny. And during the car ride.
In fact, I keep my hockey-head on the entire time. Focusing on the here and now. Not concerning myself with the end result.
Right up until Johnny pulls up outside the station.
“You ready?” he says.
