Chapter 31
thirty-one
The amp weighs sixty pounds.
I know this because I’ve been holding it for twenty minutes, and now my forearms are screaming at me and my grip keeps slipping on the worn leather handle. And that’s not even the worst part, which is the fact that I’m crammed into the shadows of a stage wing.
I feel like some kind of deranged audio elf who took a wrong turn at Santa’s workshop and ended up at a punk show. The stage lights are still dim, washing the cramped backstage area in sickly amber, and somewhere beyond the curtain, the crowd is a low, restless hum.
But I’ve got no choice but to tell myself everything is fine, because out there there’s two hundred people, give or take. And all of them are about thirty seconds away from watching me sprint onto a stage like a lunatic to either save the show or get tackled by security.
“Well, you see, officer, I broke her heart and then I built her a new power supply and now I need to swap her amps because the one she’s using sounds like a dentist’s waiting room—”
I shift the amp, feeling the familiar heft. It’s a monster, all wood and magnets and history, the kind of gear that was built before planned obsolescence was invented. It’s the kind of gear that doesn’t break; it just waits for someone patient enough to understand it.
Someone like me.
Someone who poured all the money and care he has left into it.
Two hours ago, I was in the alley behind this venue, making my case to the one person who could make or break this whole insane plan. Milo, the drummer, had watched me with the patient assessment of someone who’s seen bands form and implode and survived to tell the tale.
“Run it back for me,” he said, polishing his glasses on his shirt. “Because it sounds batshit crazy.”
I talked fast. “Right before you guys get started, there’s going to be chaos at the back of the room. When that happens, you give me fifteen seconds of cover—loud and aggressive—while I swap the amps, and then it’s straight on with the show.”
Milo put his glasses back on. “Fifteen seconds.”
“That’s all I need.”
“During the Battle of the Bands.”
“Yes.”
“In front of two hundred people and at least three judges.”
“Yes.”
He was quiet long enough that I started mentally rehearsing the speech I’d have to give Cass before the show. I didn’t want to have to corner her like that, but I know in my marrow that she needs this amp like she needs air, so my next best (and totally worst) option is to just give it to her.
“Why this?” Milo shrugged. “Why her?”
I let out a long sigh. “I don’t know how much she told you guys—probably nothing—but we had something serious growing, and I pissed all over it. I don’t think she’ll want to see me, but whether she’d admit it or not, she needs this amp.”
“So if she’s told you she’s done, why do you care?”
“Because her sound matters more than my feelings,” I said, almost mournfully. “And if she never wants to speak to me again, then I hope she’ll at least use her amp again.”
“This is your apology…”
“Yeah…” My voice trailed off. “I broke something I can’t unbreak, but I can fix this. So I’m not going to let her walk out on that stage tonight and plug into something that makes her sound like everyone else, because she’s not everyone else.”
Milo didn’t say anything for a long time, then he tucked his drumsticks back into his pocket and pushed off the wall. “Fifteen seconds. Don’t miss.”
He started walking back to the venue, and I thought that was it. Mission briefing complete. But then he stopped, turned, and looked at me over his shoulder. It was the sort of sizing-up gaze that fathers give to the guy who want to date their daughter, boring deep into your soul.
“For a hockey player,” he said, “you’re not completely terrible.”
And then he was gone.
I stood there for a full minute after he left, digesting what he’d said. It wasn’t praise, exactly, but in some ways it was something better. It was acknowledgment from someone who lives in Cass’s world, but also someone who saw through the varsity jacket and the hockey player label.
He saw me.
Now, in the shadows of the stage wing, that memory steadies me. I hear bass frequencies pulsing through the monitor wedges, which means Pinebox is almost ready to play. So I peek my head up and catch Milo’s eye. He’s sitting behind the kit, drumsticks in hand, utterly relaxed.
He gives me a single, sharp nod.
Green light.
My thumb finds my phone, and I text Rook:
Go.
I hit send.
For three seconds, nothing happens.
The crowd hums. The stage lights flicker. Joel adjusts something on his bass. Cass turns toward the sound booth, frowning. I force myself to look away, because if I look at her, I’ll freeze, and I know I’ve got only one chance to make this work.
Mission first.
Then the back of the room explodes.
The crash is spectacular—a deafening metallic avalanche that sounds like someone drove a forklift into a recycling center. Nobody has a fucking clue what it is for a second, but I know it’s Stiles “accidentally” plowing into the tower of empty kegs stacked near the soundboard.
Nash’s voice cuts through the chaos. “HEY! WHAT THE FUCK, MAN! THERE’S A FIGHT!”
I never thought I’d be grateful for Nash’s dumb-jock energy, but the universe has a sense of humor tonight.
The guys, like Milo, are in on the plan, and when I’d sent Rook the request earlier today, there’d been instant acceptance.
The guys had rallied around one of their teammates, one of their brothers.
And, for once, I feel like one of them.
As the calamity plays out, security rushes toward the bar, the sound guy rips off his headphones, and Cass and Joel turn their heads. But I know the chaos will only draw their attention for a second, so then Milo tears into a drum fill so chaotic it shakes the floorboards.
And it’s my cue.
I run.
Three huge strides eat up the distance. The stage is dark enough that I’m just a shadow—a big, gangly shadow moving way too fast—but I don’t care. I reach out for Cass’s amp, yanking the cords and then moving it aside. I’m not surprised to find that it’s light as a feather.
Hollow and soulless.
I shove it behind the drum riser, and Milo kicks a heavy canvas tarp over it with his sneaker, burying the evidence without missing a beat on the ride cymbal. A quick glance up tells me that neither Joel nor Cass have noticed me on stage, and I’m hoping anyone watching thinks I’m crew.
Now the hard part.
As I heave the amp into place, my lower back lodges a formal complaint. My arms shake, and for one horrible second I’m convinced I’m going to drop it, then watch a week of work and my entire savings shatter on the stage floor—
But my hands know their job.
They’ve been building things since I was twelve. They’ve soldered a thousand connections. They’ve brought dead circuits back to life. They don’t drop the things they’ve fought to save, but that doesn’t stop the stand from groaning under the weight, although thank God it holds.
I grab the coil cable from her pedalboard and jam it into the input jack.
Click.
I check the settings—gain at seven, treble at six, reverb at four.
Check.
My hand finds the standby switch, and I flip it.
The amber light glows to life. A warm, unblinking eye in the darkness. It looks like a heartbeat, like a promise kept, and like everything I couldn’t say with words finally finding another language. It’s a stubborn bastard, refusing to flash green for two seconds, until it finally blinks green.
Goal! Now time to get the hell out of here!
As I scamper off stage and the ruckus from the venue floor starts to die down, I see Milo is watching me through the hardware—through the cymbals and hi-hat stand—and he’s grinning. And then I start to notice Cass turning, and I hope like hell I get out before she realizes.
I put a finger to my lips, Milo mimes zipping his shut, and then I’m gone, vanishing into the shadows of stage left, sliding through the kitchen in a blur of stainless-steel and shouted orders. I dodge a waitress, narrowly avoid a guy hauling ice, and burst through the back door.
Cold air hits my face. My lungs burn. My hands shake so badly I shove them into my pockets. “I did it,” I say, my voice a breathless whisper.
The roar of the crowd brings me back to my senses. I don’t want to miss this, especially after all this skullduggery, so I circle back through the service corridor. The main room opens ahead—a sea of bodies and bar lights—and I find the boys huddled near the scene of the crime.
It’s a disaster zone of toppled kegs and spilled beer that the bouncers are still trying to contain. The air reeks of hops, and, somewhere near the back, a bouncer is shouting about liability in the tone of a man who has already mentally quit his job.
Stiles is dabbing at his PBU polo shirt with a cocktail napkin, his expression caught somewhere between disgust and profound self-satisfaction. Nash has planted himself with a clear sightline to the chaos, watching the bouncers wrestle an empty keg upright with a big grin.
They are all still wearing their team travel gear—matching red-and-black quarter-zips and track pants. They look wrecked—sweaty hair, shadows under their eyes—but they’re vibrating with the kind of manic, high-voltage energy that only comes after a massive win.
And Rook is leaning against the exposed brick wall, arms crossed, his gaze tracking my approach. “Well?” he says.
I exhale. “It’s done. The amp is live, the settings are locked, and I don’t think she noticed…”
“Dude, if she noticed, you’d be missing an arm, from what I know about that girl,” Rook laughs. “Good job.”
Nash’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Good thing we wrapped the game up early. We crushed UMass 4-1, by the way. You missed a hell of a third period.”
“I saw the score alerts,” I lie. “Congrats.”
“Thanks. But did you see that speed?” Nash points at me. “I told you assholes the kid had wheels when he wasn’t thinking too hard. That was ninja shit, Kellerman. Full Mission: Impossible. You should’ve done a tactical roll across the stage.”
“The way you just—” Stiles mimes something that might be sneaking, or possibly interpretive dance. “Smooth, man.”
Translation: I thought you’d choke.
And honestly?
So did I.
But tonight I didn’t trip. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t freeze.
Stiles tosses his sodden napkin toward a nearby trash can. “I sacrificed my favorite shirt for that diversion.”
“Tragic,” I say.
He points a finger at me. “This squares us up, by the way. For the jokes, the gear hiding—”
“Gentlemen,” I say, shaking my head, “we are not even close to square, but this is a reasonable downpayment.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Nash’s face does something complicated—confusion cycling through to recognition and then to respect. Then he grins. “Fair enough, Sasquatch.”
Stiles is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Did Kellerman just… trash talk us?”
“I believe he did,” Rook says, and there’s something in his voice—approval, recognition. “The boy’s all grown up.”
And, in that moment, it’s clear I’m not their mascot anymore.
I’m one of them.
I spin toward the stage. “She’s about to play.”