Powerplay , Romance With My Proplayer

CHAPTER 2

I never told Maya about the text. I just say I need some air and slip out through the players’ lot, arm shoved inside my jacket. As soon as I’m out of sight, I call Eddie. He doesn’t pick up. Voicemail. I try again—still voicemail. By the fifth call, I’m sitting in my truck, and dialing feels more like something to keep my hands busy.

Downtown at midnight looks split. Glass towers beam light like giant aquariums, while the older brick buildings huddle below, grimy, boarded up, hanging on. The People Mover glides overhead, nearly empty, its window lights blinking by. I roll down Michigan Avenue into Corktown, gripping the wheel, which hurts like hell, but I hold on anyway.

The bar's half full. Old Tigers pennants hang on the walls, a framed Red Wings sweater behind the register, and above the taps, the TV keeps replaying my goal from earlier. Eddie sits in the back booth, hood up, tearing up a coaster.

He’s twenty-six and looks just like me, minus the senses. His knee’s bouncing so hard the glasses rattle.

"You didn’t pick up," I say.

"I was working up to it." He lets out a thin laugh. "Nice goal, by the way."

"How much?"

He stares at what’s left of the coaster. "Cole."

"How much, Eddie?"

"Four hundred." He pauses, eyes flicking up just once. "A Thousand."

I sit down because standing isn’t an option anymore. "You’re lying."

"God, I wish." His hands don’t stop moving. "Started with football. Then hockey, and I know what you’re thinking. A guy said he'd float me until Friday. Friday came and went, and after that the number started growing on its own." He swallows hard. "They know who you are, Cole. That’s the problem. They know it’s you."

"Know what’s me?"

He finally looks up. I wish he hadn't. "I told them you'd make it right. I told them you could. I said you’d do whatever they needed on the ice."

The TV shows my goal again. Someone at the bar cheers.

—

The door swings open behind him, bringing in a cold and a guy in a camel overcoat. He’s smiling, but it’s the kind you practice in front of a mirror. He walks right up to our booth, not hurrying.

"Gentlemen. Mind if I sit?"

Eddie goes stiff. "Don’t," he whispers to me. "Don’t."

I stand. My shoulder screams, but I keep my face blank. I’ve gotten good at that. "We’re leaving."

"Funny." The guy slides a business card onto the table, face-down. "Mr. Brenner doesn’t see it that way." He stares at the tape under my jacket. "Rough hit tonight. It’d be a shame if the next one did more damage."

I hit him before I decide to.

It’s not pretty—my right only, no power behind it. Still, he isn’t ready. He folds over a table, a pitcher goes flying, someone at the bar shouts, and two more guys rise off their stools. They’re big, lazy, the kind who never had to rush. Eddie bolts for the back door. I go after him.

The alley’s wet red brick, one yellow bulb buzzing over a dumpster. The first guy grabs Eddie by the hood. I hit him with everything I’ve got on the right, and the left arm follows even though it hurts. What happens after doesn’t feel like action—it feels like a place I now belong.

Something pops. Maybe the bulb. Headlights flood the alley, a horn blares, and a gray Volvo skids in between us and the goons. Wipers slap.

The driver’s door throws open and Maya Reyes shouts, "Get in!"

I toss Eddie in the back and fall after him. Maya’s already moving before the door shuts. In the mirror, the camel coat stands in the rain, thumb pressed to his lip, watching us leave—almost polite.

Two blocks later, a black SUV slides out behind us from a side street, no headlights.

"Don’t turn around," Maya says, calm as anything, and steps on it.

We shake it in the Greektown parking structure—three floors of screaming tires and concrete pillars—then she kills the lights up top. We sit there, listening to an engine cruising below. Eddie mutters prayers. Maya doesn’t. She counts something, barely moving her lips.

The engine fades away. Nobody moves for a full minute.

—

"You followed me," I finally say.

"You hid a text from me and ran into a bar with a broken collarbone. I’m a doctor, not a saint." She checks the mirror. "Who's the kid?"

"My brother. Eddie, say hi."

"Hi," Eddie squeaks.

She drops Eddie at a cousin’s place in Southwest Detroit and makes him swear, twice, to stay indoors. Then she drives toward the river, parks beneath the huge sweep of the Ambassador Bridge. The Windsor lights smear across black water, and trucks rumble overhead, making the car shiver.

She shuts off the engine. Rain taps on the roof.

"Jacket off."

"That a line?"

"It’s a clavicle."

I pull off the jacket, slow, grumbling words I don’t usually say around people. She clicks on the dome light, grabs athletic tape and a gray scarf from the back seat. Her hands move quick and steady, so close I can feel her breathing—almost steady, but not quite. She’s trying to keep it hidden.

"This’ll hurt," she says.

"It already does."

"Not that kind."

Her fingers pause on my skin. The heater ticks, her pencil lies lost on the dash, a strand of hair across her eye. Nobody’s fixing either. I lean in, just a bit.

Her phone lights up in the cupholder.

She’s not fast enough.

V. HALE: Is he compromised? Report by morning.

And above, the thread scrolls up—a column of her own replies, green bubbles, one per day, three days straight.

The dome light buzzes. Her face goes still.

"Doctor," I say quietly. "Who do you actually work for?"