𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝄠 Head On Collision – New Found Glory
WE LEAVE Liam at the rink while Hudson drops both Oliver and me off at his tenement building.
If I were questioning my sanity, what I see makes me realize I’m doing the right thing.
His home is a desperate place.
A drug deal goes down on one corner, right out in the open, and I see cash exchange hands for what can only be a deal between a hooker and a john.
Aside from those heart-warming welcome homes, the entire neighborhood looks as if it were due for demolition ten years ago.
As I stare at it, Oliver fidgets on the back seat. “Lady.”
I turn so he can see my arched brow.
God, he’s young.
I didn’t realize my attacker was practically a fetus until I saw him in the lineup. I mean, I knew he was young, but this young?
With a huff, he corrects, “Gracie.”
“Oliver, what is it?”
“I don’t want you to come up.”
“Do you not want your mom to know what happened?”
He snorts. “Like she’ll give a damn anyway. Nah, it’s not safe for you ‘round here. Arnie’s family lives on my block.”
Nodding my understanding, I mentally file what could be a future problem. “Will there be an issue getting away for practice?”
Oliver sucks in his bottom lip. “No.”
“Convincing.”
He wriggles his shoulders. “I can only try, right?”
“Not good enough. I think we should establish a baseline. If you can’t make it to a scheduled practice, you text me. But if you do that more than three times in a row, I’ll go to the cops. If you skip four practices in a month, I’ll go to the cops. You understand me?”
He glowers at me. “How am I supposed to get away from my friends?”
“Maybe you tell them that you’re one of the lucky few who gets to take part in this program.”
“They won’t think I’m lucky. They’ll just be jealous.”
“Then they’re not really your friends.”
His shoulders hunch, but he doesn’t have an answer for me.
Facing him on the back seat, I murmur, “Hudson can pick you up if you have trouble getting to the stadium.”
My words have him staring at me like I’m an alien. “I don’t get it, Gracie. Why are you going to this much effort for me? Even I know what I am—a punk in the making.”
“Who told you that?”
“No one,” he mumbles.
“Liar. Nobody calls themselves that.”
“Mrs. Hyatt next door. She says I’m good for nothing.”
I scowl at him. “Don’t you want to prove that she’s wrong?”
“I don’t know if I can.” With ancient eyes, eyes too old for such a young boy, he studies his building. “People like me… we don’t leave this neighborhood.”
“This is your chance to. Maybe something will come of it, maybe nothing. You might suck at hockey, but you might meet a good friend in the program. Either way, it’ll keep you off the streets and out of trouble… and it’ll stop me from going to the cops.”
“You don’t gotta keep saying that,” he grumbles.
“Sure I do,” I say lightly. “I have to ram it home so you’ll listen. I have three brothers. I remember what they were like as teens. Memories like sieves for anything that wasn’t sex or sports-related.”
I don’t want to blackmail a preteen but if it keeps his nose clean, I will.
Though he blushes at the ‘S’ word, proof alone that the kid hasn’t totally been corrupted by life in this tenement, he mumbles, “You’ll send this fancy car to pick me up?”
“If you need me to.”
“Mrs. Hyatt’d tell you that I ain’t worth your time.”
“I think we should prove Mrs. Hyatt wrong.”
His grin is sheepish. “I’d like that. She’s a real bitch.”
“Not sure that’s the way to prove her wrong, Ollie,” I remark wryly.
“Oliver.”
“Ollie,” I insist. “You have my number?”
As he clambers out of the car, he nods. “I do.”
“What’s your social worker’s name? I might need it for the paperwork.”
“Jeremy DiPascale.”
“I’ll be in touch once everything’s arranged.”
He bites his lip. “You think Mr. Liam’ll make it happen?”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll make his life hell.”
Ollie’s eyes widen but his grin is back, making him seem like any other kid. One who didn’t grow up around drug abuse and violence and gangs. Then, in the blink of an eye, a mask comes down over his youthful features.
That is Oliver.
I guess we all wear masks; work exposes some and loved ones draw out others…
That’s why I insisted on calling him Ollie.
I want him to know he’s not just Oliver. He can be ‘Ollie’ too.
“School is close, right?”
He nods.
“Make sure you keep your attendance up—”
“Or you’ll go to the cops.” He rolls his eyes. “I get it, la—” He coughs. “Gracie.”
Smirking, I watch him go, but not for long—Hudson’s obviously worried about his hubcaps and he takes off when I shut the door to the back seat.
As he returns me to the stadium, I start reading through one of the essays I have to hand in to my professor tomorrow, but my mind swiftly drifts.
I don’t know what I was thinking when I lied to Officer Brownhill, and I sure as hell don’t know if I’ve made the right decision here, but at least I tried.
Not every kid is as lucky as Noah—he had a family who cared about him. Who worked hard to keep him on the straight and narrow.
That Ollie’s mom didn’t give enough of a damn to head to the precinct with him or that DiPascale didn’t hang around to make sure Ollie went to school today tells me all I need to know.
There isn’t much I won’t do to preserve the remaining innocence in that boy’s nature.
By the time I’m in the stands, I watch Liam and Lewis practice some plays that Bradley’s set up. He probably thinks they’re cutting-edge, and they might have been when Gretzky was on the ice. Still, they’re a power duo, much like Lemieux and Jagr once were, one that the Stars need while they’re working through the kinks from new management, kinks that remain even though we’re deep into the season.
As I continue proofing my essay, I’m tempted to ignore Paddy when he pops up and sits beside me like a clurichaun that doesn’t want to take the hint.
“How’s his head?”
Such a greeting.
“From the hit the other day or in general?”
“Both?” He scratches his nose. “The other day, first, though.”
“He’s fine.”
“They lost yesterday.”
“Can’t win them all.” At his worried frown, I sigh. “They didn’t lose because of his head. I’m sure he’ll be 100% fine for tomorrow night’s game.”
“Perfect.”
Something about his tone has me asking, “You betting on him again, Paddy?”
He scowls at me. “That’s none of your business.”
Because he’s right, I just shrug. “Your funeral.”
“It isn’t any of your business but I haven’t gambled since my older brother died.” He sniffs. “Can’t a man want to know how his kid is doing?”
“Depends. I met your daughter yesterday.”
It isn’t a figment of my imagination that he blanches. Interesting. “You met Jennifer?”
I nod. “She was in the lobby of Liam’s building. Waiting to see me.”
“To see you?” He frowns. “What’s her game?”
“No game. She wanted me to ease the way for them both.”
“Smart of her. You and I both know that Liam doesn’t like change at the best of times.”
The best of times haven’t come around since before the kidnapping…
Funny how Liam would say that Paddy doesn’t know him at all, but he knows that.
“You going to do it?”
“Haven’t had the chance to yet, but I will, yeah.”
“You never ease the path for me.”
“Not my job to. You’re his dad. You fucked up along the way. That’s on you to heal that boo-boo.” I cut him a look. “How come Liam doesn’t know about her?”
“He does. You know how he’s been since the kidnapping, focused on getting through each day.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to know her.”
“Maybe. He won’t talk to me, period, not since I forced his hand to get him here, so I can’t figure out where his head’s at.
“Still, my girl’s as much of a ballbuster as you. Maybe you can make it work.” Paddy heaves a sigh. “He’s got other family that’d like to meet him too.
“Cousins and nephews plus their wives—great girls the lot of ‘em. Even an aunt who’d like to bring him into the fold.”
“Liam likes being in the Bukowski fold.”
“Don’t you think, after what happened, he’s isolated enough? Don’t you think he deserves to be surrounded by people who’d like to call him family?” He hitches a shoulder. “I know I’d like that for him. Don’t you?”
I can’t deny that I do.
Still, Paddy isn’t finished. “These folk ain’t just your average guys either. Conor bought this hockey team to bring Liam to the city because he wasn’t doing well.”
“Did he do that for Liam or for you? Because I don’t think Liam wanted to come here.”
“Liam was alone in Montréal,” he growls, his temper bristling at my admittedly prickly tone. “That wasn’t going to change any time soon. He needed to be with people who matter to him. Including you.”
“You brought him here because I’m here?” My brows lift. “Thought you didn’t know I’d left Canada…”
“I brought him to the city because we are all here.” Sniffing, he clambers to his feet. “Anyway, I’ve been patient. This Sunday. Dinner.”
My eyes widen at his demand. “Excuse me?”
“No excuses,” he retorts, purposely misunderstanding me. “I want him to meet the people who care about him.”
Annoyed but unsure why because Paddy seems as if he’s trying to be a father for once, I mutter, “I don’t even know where you live!”
“Same building as you. Couple of his cousins do too. Top floor is where we’ll be having Sunday dinner though. The doormen know to show you to the private elevator that’ll take you up there. I’ll expect both of you at three.”
Brows lifted as the jerk swaggers off, I find Liam on the ice. Because he has some kind of radar where his father is concerned, he’s watching so I shoot him a smile, not wanting him to think that Paddy pissed me off.
I mean, he did, but Liam doesn’t need the distraction during practice.
Because I am agitated, I figure it’d be a good time to deal with another asshole so I can scratch something off my growing to-do list.
Momentarily dismissing my essay, I get to my feet and head for the bench where Bradley’s watching over the scrimmage.
“Kerrigan’s baby momma’s got cancer,” I drop as my greeting.
His head swipes to the side as he finds me in the stands. “What?”
“You heard me. Keep it on the down low—his kid’s mom’s sick.”
“How do you know that?”
I shrug, unwilling to give him an answer.
“That’s probably why his temper’s running on a shorter fuse than usual,” Bradley muses.
I roll my eyes at that insight, barely refraining from countering, You don’t say.
What I do say is, “You should probably bench him tomorrow.”
“Bench one of my stars?”
I scoff. “He’s not one of your stars. He’s barely kept his shit together this season. He’s -4 in the last 3 games. For a player that plays on your offensive line, it’s, shall we say, unbecoming? It’s no wonder Liam doesn’t pass him the puck.”
“We discussed how he favors Lewis over Kerrigan—”
“I heard. Which was dumb. A goal is a goal.”
“Kerrigan was a top scorer for San Jose. He’s barely scored this past month. If his teammates aren’t passing to him, then—”
“Then he should make sure he’s open for a pass. Look, these guys aren’t machines. You don’t need to be their drill sergeant.” When his glance turns mutinous, I grouch, “I didn’t come over to tell you how to do your job—”
“That’d be a first. You think I haven’t heard the ‘tips’ from Padraig O’Donnelly? I know exactly where they’re coming from. My question is, what’s your angle, Bukowski?”
“No angle. But I’m on your side, Bradley. Liam’s your captain and if I can make things easier for him, I will.”
“You consider this ‘easier?’”
“You should see me when I’m trying to be difficult,” is my sweet retort. “Anyway, I didn’t come over here to tell you about Kerrigan.”
“No? Then why are you gracing me with your presence?”
“Liam wants to sponsor a kid for the outreach program.”
“There’s a process,” he dismisses, his gaze knowing. “One Liam is aware of. You might think you’re above the rules, but you’re not.”
“We both know that’s bullshit,” I counter, unoffended as I watch Liam ignore Kerrigan and target Lewis—who immediately scores. I don’t comment on the fact that Greco’s injured shoulder is acting up again because Bradley should have caught that. “I could just talk to Padraig and he’d make it happen, but I thought I’d talk to you instead.”
Bradley cuts me a look. “I don’t like you, Bukowski.”
Well, hello, open season.
“The feeling is mutual—”
“You clowns—get your asses moving!” he shouts. “What is this bullshit with you peewees on the ice?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I think you’re a dinosaur who’s hanging onto his laurels of winning gold for Canada when you should have retired once you added that medal to your meager collection.
“Your plays are outdated, and how you manage your players is out of touch with their reality. Greco should have been given a reprieve from this practice. It’s clear that his shoulder’s bothering him and you still put him in net. Never mind that you tried to get Liam to play when he might have had a concussion.
“I get that you have to make your mark and that you want to put the Stars on the map. I mean, the mafia owns the team. I don’t even want to know what they’ve threatened you with if you lose,” I comment, tone sugary. “But sacrificing your players or letting them play when they need to rest isn’t the way to go about it.”
“I don’t need to be lectured by some nobody cunt from the prairies.”
Eyes flashing with annoyance, I turn on him. “If the nobody cunt from the prairies is the only one who’ll tell you that you’re wrong, then that’s just proof that we raise them right in Winnipeg.
“Do what you want with my criticism, I don’t give a shit, but when I bring a kid to the outreach program, you get him an open spot, do you hear me?”
“Or what?” he snarls.
“Or I’ll speak to Liam’s family and make it known that you’re mismanaging the team. They’re probably not hockey fans because if they were, they’d see you for what you are—a washed-up has-been ready for the retirement home.”
Not letting him answer, I retreat through the rows and head up the stairs toward the exit.
A smile curves my lips, though.
I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed that as much as I did, but fuck if I don’t hate it when people bring up my province and dismiss me as if I’m from the sticks.
I’m not.
I’m from the best fucking city in Canada, and anyone who argues with me can suck my donkey dick.
