21. Sawyer
21
SAWYER
T he video of Maggie’s punch went viral faster than a breakaway goal. But here’s the kicker—the internet loves her for it. My phone’s been blowing up with notifications. Hashtags like #HockeyWifeGoals and #DontMessWithMaggie trending everywhere.
I should probably be more concerned about the PR nightmare, but I can’t help grinning every time I replay the clip. That’s my wife, the queen of badassery.
Robert Thornton called earlier, and seemed to think my wife punching someone is a good thing for publicity. Something about building strong muscles by eating his breakfast cereal. He’s running with it. The irony is not lost on me.
“Sawyer, my boy! That wife of yours is pure gold,” he boomed through the phone. “Patricia’s practically bouncing off the walls, wanting to have Maggie over again. Something about joining her ladies’ club? I think your little spitfire’s made quite the impression.”
I laugh, picturing Maggie at some stuffy country club tea party. “I’ll be sure to pass along the invitation, sir. Though I can’t promise she won’t start a brawl over the last cucumber sandwich.”
Needless to say, it’s been a whirlwind couple of weeks.
Siobhan headed back to Boston a few days after that game, but not before giving me an earful about how I’d better treat Maggie right. As if I needed the reminder.
While Siobhan works out the cyphers in Boston, I will continue to make phone calls from here, trying to get in touch with anyone I remember from Dad’s circle of friends to convince him to keep his mouth shut.
Things are starting to heat up this season for the Titans. We have a home game with Quebec coming up, and the coaches are working us hard.
Today’s practice session went long. All I want is a hot shower and maybe to curl up with Maggie on the couch. But the second I step inside my house, I know something’s off.
Maggie’s perched on the edge of the couch, ramrod straight, her knuckles white as she grips a throw pillow. Her face is a mask of forced calm, but I can see the fear in her eyes.
Then I notice them. Two guys who look like they stepped straight out of The Sopranos are lounging in my armchairs, helping themselves to what I’m pretty sure is my last beer. There are half-eaten sandwiches on the coffee table, and I swear I catch a whiff of the prosciutto I was saving for a special occasion.
My blood runs cold. This has to be connected to my father’s mess.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand. The words come out sharper than I intended, a mix of confusion and anger.
The larger of the two men, a guy with slicked-back hair and a nose that’s clearly been broken more than once, raises his beer in a mock toast. “Ah, the hotshot hockey star! We were just getting acquainted with your lovely wife here.”
Maggie’s eyes flash a warning at me, silently pleading. I want nothing more than to rush to her side, but I force myself to stay put, not wanting to make any sudden moves.
“Yeah?” I say, keeping my voice steady as I slowly move closer to Maggie. “And who might you be?”
The other guy, wiry with a face like a ferret, smirks. “Let’s just say we’re old friends of your dad’s. Thought we’d stop by for a little…chat.”
“I think you gentlemen have…delighted my wife enough,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “How about we continue this conversation elsewhere?”
“Oh, we’re not going anywhere just yet. You see, we have some unfinished business to discuss. Family business.”
I feel my jaw clench, trying to keep my cool. Maggie’s sitting there like she’s been carved from stone. How long have these mobsters been here, in my home, alone with my wife? And she made sandwiches for them! It’s such a Maggie thing to do.
“Look, fellas,” I say, forcing a casual tone. “I appreciate you dropping by for an impromptu beer tasting, but I’m not exactly sure what you’re getting at.”
“Good sandwiches,” the skinny one says, patting his stomach and wiping his mouth with a napkin, as if they’re just two friends visiting. “The beer on the other hand, not the best.”
“How about we skip the pleasantries and get to why you’re really here?”
The bigger guy, who I’ve mentally dubbed ‘Nose Job’, chuckles. “Impatient, aren’t we? Just like your old man.”
“Yeah, well, unlike dear old Dad, I’ve got a game tomorrow and beauty sleep to catch up on. So, spill it.”
The lead Italian leans back, wiping his mouth with a napkin (from my own kitchen, of course), and says, “Let’s get right to business. Your old man, Brian O’Malley, he’s got something that belongs to us. We want it back.”
Maggie remains silent, clearly terrified but holding it together.
I try to keep my voice steady as I say, “And you thought, what? That I keep all of Dad’s stolen goods in my trophy case? Hate to break it to you, boys, but I’m not exactly in the family business. I'm just a guy who’s good at putting a puck in a net.”
The big guy responds with a smirk. “That’s not how it works, kid. You’re Brian’s son, and that makes you next in line. We just need our goods back. Simple as that. Tell us where it is, and we’ll be on our way.”
“I don’t know about any goods. Listen, my dad’s an accountant for the Irish. He’s a nobody. You need to go talk to whoever’s in charge."
The Italians exchange a look then burst into laughter, one slapping the coffee table.
“An accountant? Is that what he told you? You really don’t know, do you? Your daddy’s the Irish Mob Kingpin, kid.”
The whole room tilts sideways. When Dad went to prison, Siobhan and I were told he was working for the Irish as their money guy. That’s it. Not that he was running the whole operation!
These guys might be lying to get under my skin, but after this insane year of watching my whole reality fall down like a house of cards, I’m not completely surprised by this new information. Now I’ve got Italian mobsters making themselves comfortable in my living room. What is my life?
The big one puts his feet up on the coffee table and sneers. “See, Brian double-crossed us, and seeing as you’re his kid, you’re gonna get us what he owes.”
I shake my head, desperately trying to make sense of it all. “No, you’ve got it wrong. I’m just a hockey player, not…not that.”
They smirk, clearly enjoying the power shift. The skinny Italian says, “Well, you’re not just a hockey player anymore.”
My mind is reeling. How did I go from worrying about our game against Quebec to being thrust into the middle of a mob war? I glance at Maggie. She’s pale with fear…and also looks a little pissed off.
Finally, the guys stand up. The bigger mobster says, “So here’s the deal—you help us get what we want, or…” He lets the threat hang in the air, glancing meaningfully at Maggie.
Something snaps inside me. I step closer to the Italian, using every inch of my hockey player’s bulk to make myself a physical threat, even though I’m outnumbered.
“If you so much as brEATHE in her direction,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous, “I’ll break your spine.”
The Italian’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oooh tough guy, huh?”
Muscles tensed, I’m ready to throw down if these goons make a wrong move. But instead of swinging, the big guy’s face breaks into a grin.
“I like that. Devo ammetterlo, ragazzo, hai le palle ,” he chuckles, slapping me on the shoulder.
I shrug his meaty hand off me.
“You’ve got two weeks,” he says, all business now. “If we don’t get what we came for, your old man’s gonna have a big problem. And trust me, so will you.”
The skinny one straightens his jacket and says, “In the meantime, we’ll just take some collateral.” He whistles, and I realize with horror he’s eyeing Otto.
Before I can react, he’s across the room, opening the cage door. Otto, bless his feathered heart, squawks indignantly, making farting noises, “Did you poop? Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?”
Maggie finally finds her voice, horror etched on her face. “What are you doing? You can’t take my bird!”
The skinny guy just chuckles, spotting Otto’s travel cage in the corner. As he stuffs him inside, he says, “Relax. You’ll get him back once we get what we’re owed.”
Maggie loses it. “Don’t you dare hurt my bird!” she screams, lunging forward. I barely manage to catch her, holding her back as she thrashes against me.
“Two weeks,” Nose Job reminds us as they head for the door. “Get us our stuff, or we find out if parrots can swim.”
As they leave, Otto’s voice echoes back to us. “Who let the birds out chirp chirp chirp.”
I pull Maggie into my arms, feeling her tremble against me. “I promise you, I’m going to fix this. And we’re getting Otto back.”
“They just…showed up,” Maggie says, her voice a little shaky. “I didn’t know what to do…so I made them sandwiches.”
“It’s okay,” I murmur, stroking her hair. “You did great. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
She pulls back, her eyes narrowing on me. “Your dad’s the Irish Mob Kingpin? I need you to tell me what the hell is going on, Sawyer, or so help me.”