Powerplay , Romance With My Proplayer

CHAPTER 4

Maya grabs my arm before the guy in the parking lot even finishes his wave.

“Not the front,” she says. “Loading dock. Now.”

We cut through the kitchen, past blenders lined up and a whiteboard that says PROTEIN MONDAY — Marty’s handwriting, definitely — and out into a concrete bay that reeks of diesel and soggy cardboard. I peek under the roll-up door and catch a glimpse of the lot. The SUV’s still parked, the camel coat guy still leaning on the hood.

He slides into the car, shuts the door softly as a sigh, and rolls away slow—maybe eleven miles an hour, brake lights glowing all the way to the street. The kind of exit you make when you want everyone to notice.

“He wasn’t hiding,” I say.

“He was delivering.” Maya’s voice is tight. She’s eyeing the flip phone in my hand. “Give me that.”

“No.”

“Cole, it could be tracked.”

“It’s got Danny’s voice on it. Only thing here that does.” I stick it in my jacket. “You get it back when you tell me about Chicago.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Up in the rafters, a pigeon stirs in its sleep.

“Not tonight,” she says, soft. “Please.”

I let it go. Not proud of why.

···

Eddie’s cousin lives in Southwest Detroit, in this two-story with a porch light burning since I was a kid. Four in the morning, street smells like wet leaves and somebody’s tortillas, and three yards over a dog’s making his case against everything.

The front door’s open. Not busted—cracked a hand’s width, spilling light across the boards.

“Eddie?”

His cousin Luis is camped on the stairs in a Pistons T-shirt, bag of frozen peas pressed to his eye. He just stares for a long moment. When he finally speaks, it’s flat. Like he practiced.

“They said they were your friends.”

“Who?”

“Two guys. Nice coats. One with a little smile.” He shifts the peas. “Eddie went out by himself, Cole. Nobody dragged him. That’s the part that sticks with me. He just walked out and said, ‘It’s okay, they’re with my brother.’”

My hand’s on the banister. Can’t remember putting it there.

“What time?”

“Twenty minutes ago.” Luis dropped the peas. The eye’s swelling shut. “He left you something.”

It’s a coaster, folded in half. Eddie’s godawful handwriting on the back: Don’t let him buy you.

I read it three times under that porch light. By the third, I know exactly who “him” is.

···

At seven, I’m riding the glass elevator up the tallest tower by the river. Detroit’s waking up beneath me. The river’s the color of an old dime. Freighter crawling toward Lake Erie. On the other side, Windsor’s just a gray smudge. Here, old plants with busted windows crouch along the bank, a century of cars washed up in one long row.

Hale’s got the whole corner office. He’s standing at the window when I walk in — tall, silver hair, gray suit that probably cost more than my truck. No tie. Teapot steaming on the desk next to a single cup.

“Mr. Brannigan.” His voice is soft, almost gentle. That’s what unnerves me. “You look like a man who hasn’t slept. Sit.”

“I’ll stand.”

“Of course you will.” He pours tea anyway. “Let’s be efficient. I own a hockey team that lost forty million dollars last year. Investors in Nashville, Seattle, Houston — all dying for a franchise that’s, let’s say, portable. Perform or relocate. That’s the whole deal. Didn’t write it. Just read it aloud.”

“And you want me to perform.”

“I want you to be useful.” He sets the teapot down. “Some nights this season, losing will be worth more than winning. Just a few. You’ll get the memo. In exchange...” He taps the desk. “Your brother’s debt disappears by sundown. His name-drops out of conversation. And your extension gets signed at a number that makes your mother’s old cleaning jobs a bad dream.”

I never told him about my mother.

“Where’s Eddie?”

“Safe.” Doesn’t blink. “Safe depends on cooperation. I didn’t take him, if you’re wondering. But I’m the only one in this city who can bring him back.”

“Someone put me through the boards last night.”

“Men like Mr. Brenner live in the same weather as I do.” He sips tea. “Difference is, I read the forecast.”

That soft, steady voice. Never had to raise it.

“And Dr. Reyes?”

He finally smiles — small, almost sorry. “Did she tell you about Chicago?”

My jaw sets before I let it.

“She didn’t, did she.” He opens a drawer, slides a photo out, lays it on the glass for me. “I hoped she would. Would have been more graceful.”

A cemetery. Gray sky. A coffin, wet sand color, going down. Front row, Maya in a black dress. Not crying. Staring right at the camera, like she knows exactly who’s behind it.

Beside her, a young man in a Chicago jacket, head bowed. No idea who he is.

“His name was Marcus Webb,” Hale says, gentle. “Twenty-three. Three concussions. His team doctor cleared him to play — right up until he stopped breathing on the bench.”

The room’s dead quiet. Out on the river, the freighter blows a long, low horn.

“Who was the team doctor?” I hear myself ask, but maybe it’s not quite my voice.

Hale just looks at me. Says nothing. He doesn’t need to.

“Take the day,” he says. “Think it over. Sundown’s a long ways off.”

···

I make it to the elevator. Doors shut on a gray-suited man smiling at the end of the hall. My phone rings.

Eddie’s number.

“Eddie? Eddie, where are you?”

“Cole.” The voice cracks — thin, wet, close to the phone, like someone’s holding it for him. “Cole, whatever he told you, whatever he offered, don’t... don’t...”

A scuffle. Hand muffling the mouthpiece. A new voice, calm, easy, with a smile.

“He’s right here, Mr. Brannigan.” The man in the camel coat. “And he’s got until sundown too.”

The call drops. The elevator falls thirty-one floors. I watch the numbers drop, holding Eddie’s coaster in one pocket, Danny’s burner in the other, and a photo of the woman I kissed five hours ago burned into my mind.

I’d already decided to say no.

Now? I’m not sure I can.