Page 82 of Her Goal
“Of course, but if he does it again, I’m telling Bernice this time. His wife means business. But, um, there’s a sidewalk time limit, so …” I hint that we should leave.
“Where’s Larry’s house, bro?”
“Down that alley.” I point.
“Bro, it doesn’t look like a car would fit down there.”
I belatedly realize the reason I don’t see Crew’s vehicle isn’t because Larry took it. Crew doesn’t have a car and wants us to go in mine. To be sure my theory is correct, I ask, “How did you get here?”
“Robo gave me a ride. I don’t drive, bro.” He shakes his head. “Bro, I knew someday I’d go pro, so I’d have a chauffeur.”
“How’s that working out?”
“For now, my buddies drive me places, but it’s chill, bro.”
“I estimate we have about thirty seconds until Si and Tai release the hounds, so—” I gesture toward where I park.
“Who are they, bro?”
“They are the same person.”
“Bro, they have a pack of dogs?”
“No, they’re also the dogs.” I don’t know how to explain the person on the street who thinks they’re two different people, having a conversation with themselves—each other?—about whether a person is a friend or foe and then releases the hounds, which is also them barking at passerby, the letter carrier, or a poor soul who accidentally wandered onto Graves Street.
“Bro, that is wacky.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, unlocking my vehicle before noticing a note stuck under the windshield wiper demanding athousand-dollar reward for finding my radio antenna. I glance over my shoulder. It’s gone. Which means they took it.
Maybe I should move home.
“Where are we going, bro?” Crew asks.
Some date.
He reclines the seat. “Bro, I’m craving chicken wings.”
And taking a nap? Who is this guy and how on earth is he a professional hockey player?
“Just going to get some rest, bro. The jet lag is for real, though, bro.”
I don’t think he’s said a single sentence without calling me bro. I ask, “Do you really talk like this?”
“Bro, I don’t know what you mean, but you should hear our captain. Before a game, he talks like a pirate, bro. It’s nuts, bro.”
And so is Crew.
“Where are you staying?” I ask.
“The hotel with the big glass entrance, bro.”
Either he’s clueless or he doesn’t want to be on this date any more than I do. I think about the hotels in Omaha that have a glass entrance.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull up in front of the Four Seasons. The valet looks at me and I shake my head, then rouse Crew. “Hey, we’re back.”
“Huh, bro?” he asks, groggily while rubbing his eyes.
“You, um, slept through dinner and I didn’t want to wake you up, so, um, you can play well tomorrow.”
