At the team breakfast, Atwater asked Labrowski, “How’s Angela doing?”
He’d been going over to her place every day, and sometimes not coming back until the next morning. He’d shower, change, and head back out for practice or classes, or whatever we were doing. He dropped down in the seat across from me with his plate of food, bags under his eyes. He looked haggard, and he shook his head, propping his elbow on the table and raking a hand through his hair.
His hand left his hair, lifting in a frustrated motion. “I have no clue. She’s wrecked and I think–” He glanced my way quick. “She’s remembering other stuff. She just texted me that she wants to call that same detective because she has more she wants to tell him.”
“Man. I’m sorry.”
“That sucks.” Atwater leaned over his own plate.
The rest of the guys were filtering in. We had our own eating area set up in the hotel, away from everyone else. Less distraction. More team focus time, or that’s what Coach always said.
“Please. Tell me about it.” Labrowski glared at Atwater, whose head reared back.
“Dude. I’m just saying.”
Labrowski’s glare doubled. “What are you saying? Enlighten me. You have experience going through this, hearing what another guy did–” He stopped himself, but briskly shook his head. “Just, lay off. This isn’t easy shit.”
“Hey.” I leaned forward, making sure Labrowski had eyes on me. “We’ve got your back.”
He visibly relaxed, enough where the glares were more frowns. “I know. I know and thank you. I know it’s not you guys that I’m mad at, but Carrington. Guys like him make the rest of us–just, fuck him.” He looked back my way and I knew. I’d heard. I’d been there when Mara asked her those questions. His jaw clenched and he looked away. “I’d love to rip into him, just once.”
Barclay had been quiet, listening. He leaned forward now, hunching over the table. “So maybe we make that happen.”
All of us looked his way.
He lifted a shoulder, inclining his head to the side. “I bet that wouldn’t be too hard. Find out when he’s alone. No phones. No cameras. No way anyone could record anything. We’d vouch for each other, and yeah. Let’s have a man-to-man chat with him. I’m down.” At Labrowski’s lingering look, he added, “Angela’s too sweet for something like that to happen to her. She made cupcakes post-game days. I loved those cupcakes.”
Labrowski cracked a grin. “Yeah. She did. Too fucking sweet.”
“So.” Barclay was looking around. “Let’s make it happen.” He put his fist on the table, waiting.
Atwater put a fist on the table.
Me too.
Labrowski was the last one.
At one, we raised them up and hit the table at the same time. After that, each of us went to eating.
We had a game to win that day.
