31. Looks Like A Good Night For A Moral Epiphany #3
I don’t need to glance at Crew to know that he’s probably seething at me for being so insincere.
But none of that matters because the moment I scoot closer to the left side of the bed, I see it—the corner of a stack of money hidden in the bowels of darkness, only visible to the naked eye if one thought to look for it.
No normal person has a roll of hundred-dollar bills underneath their bed.
When I look at Crew, he catches on immediately.
The pompous half-pint simply snorts, still situationally unaware of the silent investigation happening right under his botched nose. “God, you think you’re all that, don’t you? Funny, considering you still took my sloppy seconds.”
Right as I’m about to lose my cool—though it was already dwindling to begin with—Crew yanks Buford onto his feet, shoves him up against the wall, and shakes the whole room from the impact.
He’s gone off script. There’s no saying what’s going to happen in the next five minutes.
I’ve never seen Crew this angry before. It’s terrifying.
“What the fuck, Calloway?” Buford screeches, kicking his feet and clawing at the arm that’s currently holding him in place. Fear sobers him up with surprising efficiency.
The air is antiseptic-cold, the plasterboard walls of the room enclosing us in some kind of echo chamber.
Buford can scream all he wants, but the truth is, nobody gives a fuck enough to come and investigate the noise.
A lot of people don’t show up when it matters most, and I’m not going to become one of those statistics.
Crew finally asks the million-dollar question, but there’s a kick to it that I’ve never heard him use before. “Have you been purposefully throwing games for payment?”
Buford is beginning to turn beet-red, that one vein in his neck popping out. His feet are still scrambling against the air. “Throwing games? Are you fucking insane?!”
“Just answer the question.”
“Of course not!”
“Care to explain this then?” I pipe up, pinching the nasty cash wad between my thumb and index finger.
Buford’s eyes double in size, his mouth falling open around another lie that only incriminates him more. “That—it’s an emergency fund. My dad lets me bring it with me whenever I travel.”
“Bullshit,” Crew hisses, pressing his forearm harder against Buford’s windpipe, as if he’s been engineered to reel guilt-ridden admissions out of the dirty liars and cheats of the world.
Even when Buford is in a trachea choke, he still falls back on his massive ego as a defense mechanism. “I don’t need to gamble to make more money than you. I already have it.”
“Glad to know you’re still violently egotistical,” Crew scoffs.
“This is crazy. I’ve been a part of this team since freshman year.”
“If you’re telling the truth, then you won’t mind us bringing this to Coach’s attention,” I intervene, dangling Buford’s bad habit in front of his face, the whole mock-FBI-money-bust-bullshit unstringing me the longer we stand here.
“I…” The rest of Buford’s sentence collapses in his throat, and I know it’s not because there’s external pressure hindering them from taking shape.
I inch closer to him with my Goliath height and unrivaled muscle distribution, reminding him exactly how capable I was of beating his ass up on the ice.
My patience has gone extinct. I pursue him like a hungry scavenger closing in on a five-course meal of carrion. “Admit it. You were going to sabotage the semifinal game just so you could appease the bookie who bribed you. You don’t care about this team. You only care about yourself.”
“Get off of me,” he growls, trying—and failing—to gain the high ground.
Bulging veins, hapless thrashing, a desperation that he’s force-feeding down our goddamn throats. It makes me sick. And the worst part? Buford isn’t sorry; he’s just sorry he got caught.
“Admit it!” I yell, trembling with rage, so close to losing my five-fingered grip on my sanity.
“Fine! Yes! I’ve been throwing games as revenge against all you morons. Nobody on this goddamn team appreciates me. I have talent this side of Minnesota has never seen, and I’m tired of being overlooked. I deserve to be the star player.”
Crew bares his teeth. “Nobody appreciates you, Buford, because you don’t appreciate anyone.
Hockey is a team sport, and you only pass to others if it benefits you.
You trash-talk everyone else to make yourself look better.
You treat your teammates like shit, and you expect them to welcome you into their good graces? ”
“I don’t need any of you! You’ll lose without me!”
“We would’ve lost with you. You can take this up with Coach if you have the balls to show your face,” I say, gesturing for Crew to release him.
When he does, Buford crashes to the floor in a fit of coughs.
I stuff the money in my pocket as evidence. The Mustangs didn’t know the kind of person Buford Montgomery was before he was let on the team, but they’ve tolerated his deplorable actions since then. We’re responsible for his mess too.
“You’ll regret this, Calloway. I’ll make sure of it,” Buford splutters, on his hands and knees, looking exceptionally small and pathetic for someone who brags about being at the top of the food chain.
Crew shakes his arm out, cocking his head with a bass-heavy growl that will linger in this unofficial execution room long after we’re gone. “Yeah? Take a fucking number.”