Page 16 of The Home Grown
He’s explaining the importance of ‘off-ice’ performance when his intercom buzzes. All of us swivel our heads towards the phone on the wall and, a few moments later, he rises to his feet to saunter over to the receiver.
“Hello?” he says.
And the voice on the other side of the line is faintly audible from where Danny and I are sitting.
“I’m looking for Mike Betts—Bettsy. I’m looking for Bettsy,” says the voice. And the first thing I notice is that she’s got the same accent as me. Do I know her?
I peer over to Johnny who’s eyeing me with question—and I shake my head. Despite being curious who it could be, I leap to the possibility of it being an ex from back home who I definitely don’t want to see.
Johnny mouths something I can’t understand, then hits the button on the intercom to talk back. “Umm, he’s just stepped out, but who shall I say is asking?”
Okay, I can live with that. But what I don’t expect is the reply we get from the voice on the other side of the intercom.
“Can you tell him it’s Ellie—Ellie Kitchener,” she says, pausing before adding, “Kitch.”
The sound of her nickname sends a rush of excitement flow through my body, right before the anxiety kicks in.
Chapter Four
ELLIE
Twenty Minutes Before
I can’t believeit’s come to this. It’s threatening to rain, and I’m standing outside what I think might be Mike’s apartment building, wearing a coat that’s more fashionable than functional.
All I’ve got to go on is a dodgy forum post from some anonymous fan who thinks sharing the local hockey team’s address is a public service. Not cool—but then again, neither is being ghosted after eight years and left with more questions than answers.
I should go home, forget the red folder, forget Mike Betts ever existed. But here I am.
As I look over the intercom system, I realise I don’t have a plan. I should probably write this whole thing off and go home.
Except, I can’t.
I’m rooted to the spot, wondering what I’m going to say to him.
What if he doesn’t remember me? What if he?—
I bite my lip, wondering why I didn’t think this through properly, when the sound of an engine revs behind me.
I swivel my head and spot a car covered in decals, progressing up the street. It slows to almost a stop before turning towards the entrance to a car park, stopping at the barrier briefly to swipe something before driving in.
I recognise those decals.
My heart beats a little faster at the idea this may not be a wasted journey after all. All I need to do is wait for the driver to park up and hopefully … hopefully, he’ll make his way around to the front of the building where I’m standing, and I can ask him if he knows Mike.
Simple.
But of course, it’s at this moment the rain starts. Cold February rain—and it’s not even a gradual spitting, it’s a full-on downpour that catches me out.
I dump my bag on to the floor under the canopy sheltering the entrance of the apartment block so I can rummage inside for my umbrella, pulling several items out before my fingers brush the handle at the very bottom of my bag.
I don’t realise the lobby door has opened until it slams shut again.
Crap.
My umbrella opens in a wrangled mess of aluminium as Mike’s teammate disappears behind the door marked ‘stairwell’.
I toss it into a nearby bin and pull the hood of my coat up, sticking as close as I can to the wall of the building.
