11. Blake #2
I pack my gear in silence, zip the bag up, and sling it over my shoulder.
The corridor is dimmer now. Arena staff are still around, some are sweeping, others are shutting down machines, and one guy is wiping the vending machine glass with a rag. They glance at me. Some nod. Most just pretend not to see me.
I walk past all of them. Slow steps. Heavy boots on tile.
Outside, the air’s warm. Still. The sky’s dipped into that deep navy blue where stars are just starting to poke through. The lot’s half empty, with only a few cars scattered. My truck waits near the edge under a flickering streetlamp.
I dig into my pocket for the fob and hit unlock. The headlights flash twice.
I walk to it, yank the door open, toss the bag into the passenger seat, and climb in.
The engine growls to life.
I pull out across the parking lot toward the security booth. The guard gives me a nod. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just hits the button and lifts the barrier.
I drive out, my tires rolling over the curb as I turn onto Frank Sinatra Drive.
I don’t turn on the radio. I don’t think. Just drive. Toward Mom’s place. Toward Bill.
Away from everything I just lost.
The strip’s lit up like it thinks it’s got something to celebrate. Neon flickers off the chrome of my truck as I crawl through traffic. People laugh on the sidewalks, their drinks sloshing, and someone takes a selfie in front of the Bellagio fountains like life’s just fucking perfect.
The casinos blink like idiots. Every horn blast feels personal. A guy stumbles across the crosswalk in front of me and flips me off like I’m the asshole. Which let's face it... I am.
I grip the wheel tighter and bite down on the urge to floor it.
I hang a right onto Paradise Road. It's quieter here. The noise dies off, but not the thoughts. Here, there are neat lawns, hedges clipped to military precision, and every porch is lit up like it’s screaming out to be seen. There, just up ahead, is Mom’s house. Lights glow warm behind the curtains.
I pull up to the curb behind Brody’s bike and Mariana’s car and kill the engine.
Yesterday, I thought I’d bring flowers for Mom. A pack of cigars for Bill. Instead, all I’m bringing is this wreck of a mood and a face like someone ran me over with my truck.
Paint on a smile for Mom. Just for a couple of hours.
I glance at myself in the rearview. Try to fake it.
I look like a jackass who's just gone twelve rounds in a world title bout and lost!
I get out, lock the truck with a press of the fob, the lights blink once, and walk up the pathway beside the driveway.
The house smells...weird. Mom’s cooking. Something is definitely not right.
What’s new?
The curtain twitches as I reach for the doorbell, and the door opens.
Bill stands there, his arms folded, his face unreadable. “Oh, my. What happened to you?” He holds out his hand.
I grip it. “Don't ask.”
His nod is tight, but his mouth twists into a false smile.
We hug, quick and solid. “Come in, Blake. Your mom’s nearly finished cooking.
” He tilts his head toward the ceiling. “God help us all.” He stares at my face for a second, and I actually pull something close to a smile, but, Jesus, my jaw hurts.
I also wonder if they know. If Brody’s told Mariana, if Mariana’s told Mom. About Cassy. The baby. All of it.
Probably.
I follow Bill into the hallway but veer off toward the kitchen. I want to see her.
The second I walk in, though, I regret it. The smell hits first, overripe pears, scorched eggplant, something definitely fish-based, and garlic that could knock over a linebacker.
Mom’s plating something up, her brow furrowed in concentration. The dish looks like it also got into a bar fight and lost. In fact, it looks worse than me.
She turns around, ladle in hand, and her eyes light up. Whatever’s in the ladle sloshes, murky, and full of lumps that seem to move a little too much for comfort.
“OH, MY GOD, BLAKE! What happened? Are you okay?” She drops everything and wraps me up in a hug, all the while keeping her eyes on my face.
“Just hockey stuff. But, and I mean this, I’m much better after seeing you, Mom.”
She steps back, concern written all over her face. “Umm... well, if you're sure. Luckily, though, you’re just in time! I made pear and eggplant soup.”
That's gonna make me feel better? I shrug mentally. Can't make me feel much worse.
The ladle tilts, and a thick, brown-gray sludge slaps onto a plate like it decided halfway through not to be soup after all.
Mariana walks in just as my eyes dart from the counter and, with a shocked look on her face, gives me a quick hug and whispers, “Just look at you. We’ll talk later. But are you okay?”
I nod. “I’m okay.”
“Come on. Let’s leave her to it. Brody’s in there.”
I trail Mariana down the hallway into the living room. Bill’s already sitting at the head of the table. Brody turns, lifts his brows, and shakes his head.
I take my seat and wait for the next round of damage.
The meal? Well, awkward doesn’t even scratch the surface.
Bill desperately tries to cut the silence, going on about how the Aces are falling apart, and how I'm going to need to step up as the captain to stop things from spiraling.
Mom kept trying to change the subject, begging Bill to take her to this performance at the Colosseum next week. Some ancient Greek tragedy, but he keeps waving her off.
And every time she starts to bring me up, my personal life, or the lack of it, he gives her a death glare that is so obvious it’s embarrassing.
I didn’t mention Cassy. Or the baby. Or the fight. Or why my face looks like it went twelve rounds with a bear.
And through it all, I try desperately to keep Mom's concoction down without vomiting.
Now it’s me, Brody, and Mariana out back at the picnic table. The air smells like dust and jasmine. She’s sipping wine. We’re draining whisky like the distillery’s going under tomorrow.
Brody tips back his glass. “Jesus Christ. So, it actually came to blows with Bishy after I left?”
“Yup.” I knock back another mouthful. The burn numbs the side of my face. Maybe the swelling, too.
“And what happened? Is he okay?”
“What happened?” I look at him, deadpan.
“He showed up running his mouth. Said McCullum wanted to see me. Then started in with the smart-ass stuff, asked if I’d been a naughty boy.
Next thing, he’s got his ugly fingers in my hair.
I didn’t even think. I just hit him. He swung back.
A couple of punches, a scuffle. But yeah, he’s fine. ”
Mariana leans in closer, her eyes narrowing as she studies me.
“I didn’t want to say anything, but your nose is a funny shape.
You might want to see a doctor. I think it might be broken.
You know I have to recommend it.” She glances at Brody, and they do that couple thing.
That silent look that says they’re worried but trying not to say it out loud.
“Seriously. I’m okay. Actually…‘okay’ is probably not the best word.”
I pick up the bottle, twist off the cap, pour another round for me and Brody, then tilt it toward Mariana.
She shakes her head. “Well, you’ve really gone and done it now.”
Brody downs his shot and wipes his mouth. “Then what happened?”
I take a breath. Let it sit in my chest for a second. “Umm… not good. McCullum stormed in and broke us up. I tried to take another lunge at Bishy, missed, and—” I make a face, “Kind of caught McCullum instead.”
Brody leans forward, disbelief all over him. “WHAT? No way. You punched McCullum?”
“Yeah,” I rub the back of my neck. “Oh, and he told me he knew everything. About Cassy, the bet, and the baby.”
Mariana grabs the bottle. Doesn’t bother with a glass and takes a slow pull.
Brody stares. “What the fuck did he say?”
“What the fuck didn’t he say?” I breathe out a bitter laugh. “Everything you can imagine, and then one more thing just to top it off.”
Mariana drinks again. Brody takes the bottle next and gulps some more, coughing slightly. “What one more thing?”
I take it from him, raise it, and follow their lead, swigging straight from the bottle. “I’m off the team. On the bench until the transfer’s finalized.”
Both of them just sit there, their mouths open, not blinking.
The first one to say anything is Brody. “Oh, Blake.”
Mariana sighs, “Well, there’s only one thing for it.”
Brody and I speak in sync. “What’s that?”
She locks eyes with me. “You’ve got to win Cassy back. Something bold. Outrageous.”
Brody nods, lips twitching. “And we both know you’re capable of that.”
Mariana taps the bottle against the table, her gaze softer now. “You get Cassy back, I guarantee you that McCullum will be putty in your hands. Providing he can see past the fact that you hit him. But at the end of the day, all he wants is for his daughter to be—”
“I know,” I cut in. “Happy. That’s all I want for her as well.”
Brody turns to me. “So… what are you going to do?”
I don’t know. What am I going to do?
***
After a whole night here at Mom and Bill's, I've had practically no sleep, lots of worrying, and too much thinking. I want Cassy and our baby so damn much. I also want to stay at the Aces. But where the hell do you go from rock bottom?
The scrape of a chair, clink of cutlery, and Bill’s usual satisfied sigh signal the end of breakfast. He puts his knife and fork together, lines them up like it’s some kind of ritual, then gets to his feet and walks over to Mom.
“Well, that’s it for me.” He presses a kiss to her cheek, already shrugging into his jacket.
Mom hugs him back, her arms loose around his waist. “Don’t forget we’ve got the Pritchards coming over tonight, so don’t be late.”
Bill laughs under his breath and casts a glance my way, eyes crinkling. “Don’t worry, I won’t be.”
Keys in hand, he disappears, out of the kitchen, down the hall, and out the front door like it’s any other Tuesday.