Page 13 of Facing Off
I do. Because I don’t want to hold it hostage as a way of coercing her to stay. I want it to be her decision.
She catches it. Then almost rips the gate open and leaves, not looking back.
If she did, she’d see me still standing there, clutching nothing and feeling weirdly like I lost something anyway.
A few weeks later, I’m hosting a barbecue. My house is stuffed with hockey players and their loved ones. Everyone’s invited. Friends and family.
Lokhov carries around my cat. Somehow he and Diana have become friends. The defenseman comes up to me and sniffs the air. “You smell.”
“Meow.”
“Diana, don’t agree with him.” I lift my shirt up and inhale. “But also what do I smell like?”
“Oil. Grease. Gasoline. Like a mechanic.”
“I was tuning my truck earlier,” I brag.
“What’s with this metal music playing outside?” Matt asks, wandering into the kitchen to pour himself a drink.
“We’re appreciating new sounds,” I tell him.
“It’s hard to hear anyone talk.”
“Yell.”
He looks at me seriously. “You’re so odd sometimes, Cap.”
My doorbell rings. The food’s here.
As if we’ve timed it, three bodies cram by the door with their credit cards out.
“On me,” growls Lokhov.
“On me,” insists Quinn.
Elbowing them aside, I squeeze ahead to open the door. “Not a chance. It’s on me.”
Delivery drivers crowd my porch, each holding their own stack of boxes.
“You ordered…from five different spots,” says Lokhov, raising a dark eyebrow.
I shrug. “The people appreciate variety.”
“But no other cuisine?” asks Quinn.
“It’s pizza,” I say as if that explains everything.
Lokhov steps forward. “Pile them together into my hands.”
He’s intimidating enough that no one questions the logic. Somehow he’s balancing all the boxes, bravely delivering them to the starving players hanging out in my backyard.
I pay for the food. Quinn adds more on top of the multi-figure tip I’ve already given everyone.
The delivery drivers leave very happy.
Soon it’s just me and Quinn left.
“Should we close the door?” he asks.
