Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
BETTSY
I always pictured my career ending because of an injury—a snapped ligament, eye injury, shattered bone. Something dramatic. Something I could point to. Something I could blame .
I’d be one of those washed-up has-beens, sitting in the stands yelling about the youth and how they should play—the bitterness of my forced retirement getting the better of me.
But this? This is beyond anything I could have imagined for myself. Whispers, headlines, media scandal, a bitter ex … though, that being said… it’s my fault. All this is my fault. It’s not how I want to go out, it’s not how I imagined my career ending, but it’s my fault.
And by the look on Hutch’s face, he’s thinking exactly the same thing as me: you did this to yourself, Betts.
“They didn’t stick around long,” Hutch says. “But they left this.”
He hands me a piece of paper: flimsy, see-through almost, black ink scribbled in such a way that has me squinting to read the writing .
“Voluntary interview?” I say. “What do they mean, I need to attend a voluntary interview ?”
“They sort of implied it would be in your best interest to do it sooner rather than later,” he says. “You know, go down to the station.”
I groan, the sickness I’ve been feeling the entire journey home increasing tenfold.
“And they didn’t give you any more detail?”
“No—well…” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “…the copper sort of slipped up, really. He said your name came up in an ongoing investigation, but I’m not sure he was meant to tell me that.”
“My name came up? What the hell does that mean?”
I’m trying to work out how Rochelle would have played this. How she would have layered on my guilt while giving her version of events; the epic sob-story.
“I dunno, mate. Maybe just go and see what they want.”
I reach into my pocket for my phone, perching myself on the arm of the sofa as I unlock the screen. It’s almost eleven, but I send a quick text to Ellie, telling her I’m home and not to worry, then I call Johnny, desperate for him to tell me what to do.
He answers within a few rings, and once I check Kelly isn’t listening, keen on saving her the worry too, I explain the situation, forcing my voice to stay level.
“I’ll meet you in the stairwell,” he says. “I’ll drive you and we can get this thing squared away. Don’t worry.”
Honestly, telling me not to worry is laughable. But I force myself to keep breathing. Deep and controlled.
I keep it up while telling Hutch that I’ll see him later. And while I make my way to meet Johnny. And during the car ride.
In fact, I keep my hockey-head on the entire time. Focusing on the here and now. Not concerning myself with the end result.
Right up until Johnny pulls up outside the station.
“You ready?” he says .
And that’s all it takes for a panic attack to set in. My chest tight, my breathing ragged, my whole body shaking.
“Not really,” I admit, gasping for air. “She’s going to end me. She’s going to ruin my career.” I turn towards Johnny, practically pleading with him. “You know I didn’t do anything, right? I didn’t push her or shove her or—all I did was help her into Vicky’s car then?—”
I put my head in my hands. My gut clenches. The air in the car feels thick, like I’m breathing through treacle. I can still hear her crying—fake as it was—as Vicky slammed the car door.
“Calm down, buddy. Take a moment.” He cuts the engine. “Look at me.”
“Cap … I?—”
“Bettsy. Look at me.”
He grabs my face and turns it towards his, locking eyes with mine.
“Right. Forget about the police. Forget about Rochelle … this is just another shift, right? We’re a goal down.
Defence, Betts. Stand tall. Watch your marks.
Show them who’s stronger.” He breathes in deep, puffing his chest out and I copy—instinct, mostly.
“And out…. in … and out. Deep breaths. Steady breaths.” His voice softens.
“I’m going to be there with you … it’s just another shift, yeah?
We’ll go inside and get this figured out. Okay? I’ve got you.”
I nod, following Johnny as he steps out of the car, and we ascend the steps.
They keep us waiting for over an hour. I know this because there’s a loud, obnoxious clock fixed to the wall behind the flimsy plastic chairs which we’ve been told to sit in. Ticking away. Minute by minute .
All I can focus on is that ticking and the smell of stale sweat mixed with tobacco. It makes me feel like I’m about to pass out.
Johnny tries to distract me, though. Playoff hockey is not a light topic where he’s concerned, so we fill the time, discussing plays, working out approaches, the tick-tick-tick in the background … right up until a constable sticks his head around a door and calls my name.
No time for distractions now.
I get to my feet and swallow down the threat of vomit; the bile burning my throat.
“I’ll be here, bud,” Johnny says.
Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. All I’ve got to do is tell them the truth. Tell them?—
“Michael Betts?” The copper says my name again as I stop in front of him, enunciating each syllable like he’s learning to read.
I nod. “Yeah.”
He looks at me, knitting his brows together, then leans back into the room, the muffled sound of distant conversation on the edge of my hearing.
Then he’s back.
“Michael Betts?” He says it slower this time, like he’s trying to catch me out.
“Yes,” I say.
“Right. Does the name ‘Billy Hobbs’ mean anything to you?”
I stare blankly at the officer.
“Hobbsy?” I say.
God, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. Not since my junior days.
The cop turns around again, retreating into the room this time, the door closing with a thud behind him.
I turn back towards Johnny.
“What’s going on?” he mouths.
But all I can do is shrug.
The door opens again, pulling my attention back, my heart banging wildly in my chest .
“Sorry, I—” He rummages through a pile of papers. “—I think … you weren’t anywhere near Kings Road tonight, were you?”
I gawk at him. “No, I?—”
“Right, thanks. You’re free to go.”
“What the—what’s Hobbsy got to do with this?” I ask.
The officer clenches his jaw.
“Your name came up in an investigation, but you definitely don’t match the description or the CCTV footage. If I’m honest, we weren’t banking on it being you, but—look, thanks for your time. Take care.”
And the door slams shut.
I stand frozen to the spot, completely dumfounded. All that worry … all the stress and … for that?
“Bud? Everything okay?” Johnny sets a hand on my shoulder.
“I—” I turn towards him, my jaw tight. “Fucking Hobbsy,” I say.
“Hobbsy? Who’s that?” Johnny says.
“I played junior hockey with him and he—I?—”
“What happened?” Johnny says.
“Well, they didn’t tell me, but … sounds like they were looking for someone in connection with him. He probably gave them my name for whatever reason. Honestly?—”
“So, nothing to do with Rochelle?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Johnny blows out a breath. “Well, that’s great news.”
We turn and walk back to his car, an odd anti-climactic stress sitting heavy on my shoulders. Because despite this being a false alarm, there’s still every chance she could cause me a problem in the near future.
As soon as I’m in his car, I’m on my phone, searching the internet for information, trying to find out if there’s a window of opportunity for her. Trying to figure out how long I’ll be worrying about this .
I say goodbye to Johnny in the stairwell, pulling him into a quick hug and thanking him for having my back.
I drag myself upstairs, every limb heavy, my spirit shrivelled. The weight of the false alarm still clinging to me like that stale tobacco smoke—sharp and sour—even though I’m in the clear. For now.
I open the door to my apartment, expecting an inquisition from Hutch, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Instead, I’m greeted by the faint smell of…
It can’t be, can it?
But it is. It’s her. She’s here.
Ellie.
Curled up on my sofa in my hoodie, sleeves hiding her hands. She looks up from her phone and offers me the gentlest smile.
And I exhale—like I’ve been holding my breath since the second I left her.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, plucking at the hem of the hoodie. “I was cold.”
But I’ve never minded anything less.