Chapter 8
JAKOB
“Hey, Jakob, wait up!” I heard a voice call out when I slipped out of Spot Coffee on Elmwood Avenue.
At first, I thought I’d imagined it and kept walking. When the voice called out to me again, I stopped and sighed. I felt pretty sure I knew who the voice really belonged to (perhaps my real reason for ignoring the call at first) and wanted to avoid the conversation.
I heard a pair of feet pound the sidewalk behind me, and then it happened: Zane Hirst slipped into my path, blocking me.
Rather than engage him, I swept around him, continuing down the sidewalk, sipping coffee.
And Zane followed—big fucking surprise, huh?
This time, he jumped in front of me, looking like he was doing a little dance, and I tried to step around him yet again. Once more, he did all he could to remain the center of my attention. I waved him away, speeding up, hoping in vain to lose him.
“In a hurry to be somewhere?” he asked, scrambling to catch up with me.
“What’s it to you?”
“What’s it to me?” He chuckled the laugh of used car salesmen everywhere. “I don’t mean to pry or anything, bro. I thought we should have a little talk, that’s all.”
“Talk? Do we have anything in common?”
“Hockey.”
“Aside from that.”
“This might surprise you, Jakob, but we’re more alike than you realize.”
“No offense, pal, but you’re nuts.”
He paused and then flashed this surprised look like an idea had just struck.
“Oh wait,” he said, “you think I’m going to beat the shit out of you, don’t you? Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I’m not looking to do anything like that at all.”
That would’ve earned a laugh from me had I not felt so determined to get the hell away from him.
Could he really kick the shit out of me?
I don’t know. The remaining minor swelling on his face suggested otherwise.
At that point, I gave up on the idea that Zane would leave me alone and behave like a normal human being, but I understood I needed to keep up my guard.
You know what the Remington Riptides can be like.
If only I had parked closer to the café, I could’ve wiggled out of this pickle much sooner…
“You know, it’s polite to answer when someone speaks to you,” he said.
“And it’s even more polite to leave someone alone when it’s pretty obvious they don’t want to talk to you.”
“That’s only because you haven’t let me tell you what I really want to talk about.”
Yeah, I should’ve told him to go take a flying leap long ago. I freely admit I’m horrible at telling people no. I’m also a famously soft touch. Despite it all, I had no problem slugging him in the heat of the moment. And yes, I like reminding myself of that.
“If you’d just hang on a minute, I’ll tell you what I really want to talk to you about. Wanna hear it?”
“Would you shut the hell up if I said no?”
Another dumbass chuckle followed.
“Probably not,” he said.
Of course not. Common sense had never been a hallmark of the Remington Riptides. Part of me wanted to ask what he meant to tell me so I could get it over with, but I understood he would do it one way or another.
“Okay, here it is,” he said, “I’d like to call a truce.”
“A truce?”
“Is there an echo out here? Yeah, I’d like to call a truce, put all the silliness behind us.”
“Remember how I said you were nuts?”
“Of course. It was less than two minutes ago. I don’t have amnesia, you know.”
“Good, because I really meant every word of it. Matter of fact, I think you’re nutty as a fruitcake, and they should reserve you a nice padded room and straightjacket. Now, how would that sound?”
“Like a dream come true.”
“Figures.”
I wanted to win the war of words in addition to laying Zane out flat (though I’m sure he would tell you I’d delivered a sucker punch). So far, I was in the lead, but only by a nose. Zane wanted to suck me in. I just knew it. That was how guys like him operated and I wouldn’t fall for it.
“You act like a truce is crazy.”
“A truce is crazy.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s what mature adults do. Can you give me one good reason why we shouldn’t shake hands and be friends?”
“Let’s start with how you all but forced me to go outside with you just a couple of days ago. And at a candy store, for God’s sake.”
“You didn’t go outside, though.”
“Yes, I did.”
“But you—”
If I kept playing semantics, maybe he would do what I wanted (what America wanted, for that matter) by going away and never showing his face again.
“I see what you’re doing,” he said.
“And what’s that?”
“You’re trying to challenge me. You want to poke the bear now because you think you can, especially since I’m the one extending the olive branch.”
“Or maybe I’m doing it because you’re a complete dope.”
“There you go poking the bear again.”
I can’t deny I was having a ton of fun getting the best of Zane Hirst. Look, I couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t drive his fist through my face, hence the reason for not even considering his stupid truce offer.
You know he didn’t actually want to make peace; he was just looking for a good place to stick a knife.
At least I could deeply enjoy jabbing at him while he exercised the greatest amount of restraint possible for a shaved ape.
“So, when did you see the light?” I asked.
“See the light?”
“Yeah, you were raring to fight me a few days ago.”
“I wasn’t raring to fight you, Jakob.”
“Bullshit, bro, you were practically frothing at the mouth.”
“All I really wanted was for us to step outside and settle our differences like gentlemen.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him to say that I saw through his nonsense like an old lady’s underpants.
“Anyway,” I said, “you couldn’t have seen the light then. You would’ve wound up seeing stars again, just like at the Colter Bay Grill.”
He bit his lip like he wanted to fire off a cutting comeback but wouldn’t—or couldn’t. Zane was as funny as a heart attack, after all.
“Hey, I meant to ask you,” I said, “how was the cop’s finger?”
“Huh?”
“Come on, Zane, you know what I’m talking about. That gigantic cop whose chest you were talking to. He looked to be in proportion. That means he must’ve had an extra wide finger, which would’ve been problematic for you when he…you know.”
“Oh, it was nothing like that.”
I crossed the street with no problem, but Zane kept following me and nearly got smoked by a Chevy (serves him right). The driver honked and cussed at him and Zane flipped the middle finger. Then he hurried to catch up with me because, well, he was Zane Hirst.
And he started laughing like he’d really found my comment funny. I tell you it was the laugh of every disingenuous asshole in America, providing all the more reason to hurry to my car.
“If you ask me,” he said, “I’m being the mature one here.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh. And don’t tell me it was because I was the one starting shit at Parkside Candy. That little chat with Officer Humongous really opened my eyes.”
“To what, exactly?”
“The fact that I was wrong. I acted immaturely and was totally out of line. Coach has drilled the principle of accountability and personal responsibility into us so hard that we should never forget it. I for one won’t let him down. Hence, the truce.”
“Dude, what hockey player says hence?”
“This one, bro.”
I tried not to roll my eyes on any of the occasions in which he’d called me bro.
I struggled not to throw up when he stuck out his hand, flashing his very best shit-eating smile.
When I peered down at his hand, I really considered accepting it, if only so I could get through this ordeal and then move on with my life.
Then I realized I couldn’t. The stunt he’d tried to pull at Parkside Candy was bullshit, even though it blew up in his face.
An idiot could’ve told you he didn’t want to settle anything like gentlemen.
He meant to hurt me that afternoon. For all I knew, this whole thing was an act meant to lure me into a false sense of security, allowing him to do his worst. I just wouldn’t fall for it. Simple enough.
Never trust a Remington Riptide.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Huh?”
“I said no, Zane. I’m sure you’ve heard that word many times, and on many dates.”
“Wait, I take the time to approach you in good faith, I admit to being wrong, and stick my hand out to go, and this is how you repay me?”
“Pretty much.”
His eyes widened, like he wanted to freak but had to bite his tongue. The look was priceless, one I would treasure until my dying hour. That was the benefit of holding all the cards.
By that point, we’d reached my car, but the idiot blocked the driver’s side door. And he stood there for a moment, like he had no idea he was doing it. Being a Remington Riptide meant he was naturally thick, which I already knew, but I didn’t need to deal with away from hockey.
So, I flitted my fingers to shoo him away and he finally moved.
I opened the car door and hopped in as quickly as possible. When I tried to shut the door, Zane grabbed it before it closed.
Of course.
“Are you going so soon?” he asked.
“I think so, yeah.”
I can’t get out of here soon enough, actually, I thought to say but wouldn’t further the conversation for all the hockey pucks in Toronto.
My hand settled over the gear shift and then saw Zane’s hands on my window. God, he would probably leave smudges, too.
“You know where to find me if you change your mind,” I heard him say through the glass.
I shifted the car into drive and eased my foot off the brake, making the Riptide step back.
When I drove away, I glanced into the mirror and noticed Zane grow smaller, still watching me.