Page 53 of Truce: Declan
I've done everything by the book, kept out of trouble, and I've had my share of opportunities, given my professional hockey player status.
Getting arrested was never part of the plan.
"Listen to me. You can't send Zayn back to his mother, Jasmine." I try to reason with the officers as they drive me toward the stations.
"Yeah, why's that?" one of them finally answers me.
"She's living with Grant Brass. He's the one who did this to Zayn. Jasmine brought him to my house to protect him. She can corroborate my story."
"M'hmm," the officer says, sounding unconvinced.
* * *
The officers book me, then drag me to the holding cell, tossing me inside and removing my handcuffs before shutting the door.
“Don’t I get one phone call? What about bail?” There’s no way I’m spending another minute behind bars.
“You can go before a judge in the morning to see if you make bail,” the officer says, a smarmy grin on his face. “That’s what you get for hitting an innocent little boy.”
“I didn’t fucking hit him!” I shout.
I’m not alone in the cell. It seems more like a drunk tank than anything tonight. One man is lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. He might be high. I’m not entirely sure what he’s on, but being here doesn’t seem to faze him.
The other guy glances me over. He’s got a beard, scruffy-looking fellow, but doesn’t look wasted or high. There’s an air about him like he’s dark and rough around the edges. Regal but not royalty.
I do my best to keep my head down. The man could be mafia for all I know. He looks like an ad campaign forhow not to end up in jail but get away with shady shenanigans.His luck ran out.
“Hey, child abuser,” he says in his thick Russian accent, attempting to get my attention.
Great.
“I didn’t fucking touch that kid,” I say, glancing up at him.
“You look familiar,” he says. His eyes are dark, but they shine with mirth as he stares at me. His jaw twitches as the realization dawns on him of who I am.
He laughs under his breath. It’s throaty and deep. Gravelly.
“You’re a sports guy. Hockey.” He points at me as the recognition hits him, but maybe he’s not great with names.
“Dragons team.”
“Ice Dragons.” There’s no sense in denying it. I’ll be all over the news with that stony mugshot of me looking straight into the camera, perturbed.
“Right. Right,” he says and gestures for the seat beside him. “Mikhail Barinov,” he says, introducing himself.
I’m not sure if that name is supposed to mean anything, but Barinov sounds Russian, as does his accent.
Did I land in a prison cell with the Russian Mafia?
That’s not a question that I choose to ask aloud. Best to keep that one to myself if I want to survive the night in hell.
“Noah Reece.” I sigh heavily and take the bench beside Mikhail. I’d prefer not to sit on the filthy cement floor that looks not just uncomfortable but is sticky. I don’t want to know how many men have vomited or pissed on that floor.
“That’s right. You play left defenseman on the team.”
“You’re a fan?”
Mikhail shrugs. “I’ve never been to a game, but when we both get out of here, maybe I’ll get tickets to see you play.”
