JEREMIAH
Chapter playlist:
The iced matcha sweats in my hand before I’m even out the door of the Coffee Loft. That’s the heat I’m dealing with, walking out into a DC morning that’s already going on ninety degrees.
I’m a different man today than three weeks ago when Erica backed into me at the specials board, causing me to spill my drink on my shirt. I wish she were here with me now so we can laugh about it. Without her, the whole block feels like it’s missing a sound effect.
I wanted time with her today. I’ll admit it. But she said she’d be busy all day with gala prep and not to disturb her. Something about her friends wanting to pamper her, getting a manicure and a blowout, whatever the heck that is.
I suppose some rest would do me good today anyway. I can’t very well monopolize every hour of this woman’s life. Okay, I do want to monopolize every hour of this woman’s life. Sue me.
So I got my matcha. Solo.
Yesterday, we’d gotten ice cream and walked it down to the waterfront.
Hers was gone before we’d made it half a block, because the woman inhales ice cream like it’s about to be repossessed.
Mine was still mostly intact when we reached the fountain because I have some self-respect.
Then she’d asked me, apropos of nothing, what kind of dog I’d get if I could get one.
“Black lab,” I said. “Or a Great Dane.”
She’d gone very still, squinting like I was a math problem that refused to add up. “Huh.”
“What.”
"I had you pegged as a Chihuahua man."
“Excuse me?”
“Small, high-strung, technically a dog.” She’d shrugged, entirely unbothered by how insulting that was. “But now that I know you better… yeah. Checks out. Big, loyal, follows you around. Protective.”
Then she’d just reached over without asking and helped herself to the rest of my cone. I just let it happen. I don’t know what that says about me.
As the lazy morning turned into a lazy afternoon, I’d asked her about her dress.
I knew she’d gone shopping, and I was curious.
I framed it in such a way so it was more about us matching, like if she was going to wear red, I’d wear a red pocket square, for example.
She saw right through my plan and told me her lips were sealed.
Then I kissed those lips and said, “Not even a hint?”
“No.”
“An itty-bitty one?”
“Spoilers.”
I will have to let my imagination do the work until I see her tomorrow night. This is torture.
I finish the matcha with one last slurp through the straw and toss the cup in a bin outside the corner store.
I go in for my gum and I’m at the rack thumbing through packs when it hits me that I’ve stood in this exact spot before with a fistful of gum.
Erica had breezed past me with a coffee, giving me a nod before disappearing through the door.
I hadn’t even known her name yet. It feels like a different lifetime already.
The conversation from yesterday springs forward. We were hand in hand, taking our time before I had to drop her off at the Airbnb. Neither one of us seemed to be in a hurry to get there.
And I’d said, “You know, I spent all this time thinking you lived in DC, and it never once occurred to me to ask where you actually live.”
“Oh. Here and there. I move around a lot.”
“Not too differently than your childhood, I suppose.”
“Yeah.” She went quiet for a second with her eyes on the sidewalk ahead as if it had the answer written on it somewhere. “I guess you could say that.”
“Any chance you’d want to spend some time in California?”
She’d made a noncommittal little sound. Something between “eh” and a hum. Then she’d tipped her head back and pointed straight up. “Ooh. That cloud looks exactly like a rabbit eating a hot dog.”
She said it with the full conviction of someone who’d just spotted a UFO, and the conversation, along with any chance of an actual answer, floated off with it.
I’ll ask her again after the gala. I’m not the only guy on my team with the same concerns.
Half the guys are plotting entire life relocations, trading teams, or moving their new girlfriends closer to them. Somebody’s selling a condo. I laugh. Seems like an unusual number of guys started new relationships during the tournament. Must be something in the water.
The lobby doors part and the AC is heavenly. For a second all I want in the world is to stand in it. Then somebody says my name.
“Precio.”
It’s Blake Davis from the East team with his big goalie energy even in street clothes.
“Bear,” I say. “Where you off to?”
“Someplace better than here, hopefully.” That’s all he gives me, and I don’t push, because I know that look. He glances at me a second too long, though, and his mouth splits into a knowing grin. "Heard something interesting this week."
“That’s never good.”
"You were at the Capitol Practice Facility last Saturday. After hours.” He lets that sit there.
I feel my stomach drop about four floors. “How do you—”
“Relax.” He holds up a hand like he’s stopping a puck. “My uncle Phil runs maintenance over there. He’s tight with your guy Martín.”
“So it was fine? That was allowed? I don’t want Martín to get written up on my account.”
“It’s totally cool. Gave me a few ideas.” He wags his brows. “A whole private skate, lights and music and everything. Very smooth.”
“Yeah, it was my…” I’m about to say girlfriend automatically, but stop myself. “…My date’s birthday. I wanted to surprise her.”
If Davis notices the stutter, he doesn’t say anything about it. He just claps me on the shoulder.
“West played great, by the way,” he says. “No hard feelings, man. Even when you were sending slap shots through my five-hole.”
“You’ll live.”
He fist-bumps me, already half-turned toward the door.
“Gotta run. Can’t miss this one.” And there’s that look.
I’ve seen it on half the guys’ faces this week, guys who three weeks ago were single and now can’t get out the door fast enough.
I wonder if I’ve been wearing the same one and just haven’t caught myself in a mirror.
I’m still smiling about the five-hole comment when I pass the lounge and a voice stops me dead in the middle of the lobby.
“She’s not gonna get away with it, you know.”
I turn.
It’s that slimy little man from the museum. He’s sitting in one of the lounge chairs like he’s been lying in wait all morning. He gets up and crosses toward me, and I’m already on defense.
“What the diablos are you doing here?” I say.
I know for a fact he’s not a hotel guest.
“Get out.”
“Hold on. I just want to talk.” He doesn’t retreat an inch. Takes another step closer instead, hands spread wide like he’s the reasonable one in this conversation.
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“How well do you know America Armitage?”
Something goes cold behind my ribs at the sound of her full name in his mouth, like he’s got no business owning it. I don’t know yet why that lands as hard as it does. I just know it does.
“What’s it to you?”
“You might want to sit down for the next part.”
“I’m fine standing.” My hands have already curled at my sides. I make myself unclench them, one finger at a time, because decking a man in a hotel lobby is not currently on my bingo card.
“Suit yourself.”
A server sets a mimosa on the low table behind him, and he drops back into the chair like the whole lobby belongs to him.
“The name’s Hobbs, by the way.”
"Say your piece and get out."
“You’re a little aggressive, aren’t you?” He takes a sip, unbothered, watching me over the rim of the glass, probably sizing me up.
I can take him.
“You see, what I can’t figure out is whether you’re her accomplice, or just another sucker she’s using. I’m betting on the latter.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The gala. Funny, I thought she was casing the museum. And then you came running along. A hockey player who, it just so happens, will be at the same gala, at the same time, as the thing she’s been wanting for six years.”
“I swear, if you lay a finger on her—”
“Relax, relax.” He waves it off like I’m the one being unreasonable. “Nobody’s laying a finger on anybody. I’m offering you a way out. That’s all this is.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“You will.” He sets the mimosa down, folds his hands, and leans in. “Because I’m offering you an opportunity. When that woman gets what she wants from you, she’ll chew you up and spit you out. All you’d need to do is turn her over to me at the right time.”
“You want me to sell her out.”
“Think about it. You’re a patsy to her, that’s all. If she’s going to let something slip, it would be to you. You’d be a hero.”
“I wouldn’t betray her trust.”
“She’s a thief, you know.”
That’s the first truth he’s said yet. Sure, she tried to steal my watch. But the devil’s in the details, isn’t he? Mixing in small truths with the lies.
“Just like dear old dad,” he adds. “Did you know he’s in prison?“
“I’m aware.”
“I put him there.” He picks the mimosa back up, entirely pleased with himself. “And tomorrow, I’ll see his brat behind bars too.”
I freeze. He’s the guy Erica was telling me about. The man on her dad’s crew who decided it was okay to close himself in her bedroom when she was just eighteen years old. It’s consistent with the way he’d cornered her at the museum. Now, looking him over, every piece clicks into place.
“It’s you.” My voice comes out flatter than I expect. “You’re the guy. The creep who hit on her when she was barely old enough to vote.”
He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t have the decency to look uncomfortable about it.
I want to put my fist through his face right here in the middle of a hotel lobby. I don’t. Not because he doesn’t deserve it. Because I know better, and because I’m not giving him the satisfaction of playing the victim.
“Don’t underestimate me, little man.” I keep my voice down, grinding the words through my teeth. “I’ve got fifty hockey players who will back me up, and trust me, you do not want to find out what that looks like. If I see you anywhere near Erica… I will end you.”
He finishes the mimosa in one long swallow, sets the empty glass down with a click, and stands, straightening his tie like he’s the one who came out ahead here.
“She’s going down, hockey player.” He’s already walking, already tossing it over his shoulder like a parting gift. “The question is, are you going down with her?”
I watch him go, watch the doors swallow him whole, and for a second all I can hear is dear old dad and thief and behind bars, looping like a bad replay review.
I don’t trust that man or anything that comes out of his mouth, even his half-truths. A man who’d set up another man as his fall guy is just as guilty of whatever put Erica’s dad in prison.
If he shows up at the gala tomorrow night, I’ll be ready.
My hands are still shaking as I make my way up the elevator to my room.