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“I wish we could be, but not like this. Sorry, guys. I thought I could do this, but I can’t.”
The slamming door punctuates Eddie’s exit. Maxwell flinches. “Eddie, wait!” Maxwell’s fist clenches and he takes his turn beating on the wall until blood stains the creases of his fingers. Merc’s arms cage him from behind to stop him from breaking a knuckle if he hasn’t already.
Maxwell shakes out of his grip. He gives us a once over and then opens the suite’s fridge, pulling out a bottle of Molson, loosening his tie. Is Mr. Scotch Man drinking cheap beer? He glides to the front of the suite, ever the swan of the lake, and stares at the empty ice.
“You should go after Eddie, sir,” I say.
“Do you think my heart’s going to grow three sizes if I do, Mr. Wescott?”
Merc grabs a couple more beers out of the fridge and tosses one to me.
“I’m not sure you have a heart,” I say.
Maxwell sips his beer. “I do. He’s about to skate onto the ice. I tied skates onto his little feet when he was two years old. I had the money to pay someone to take him to hockey practice, but I didn’t, I was up at four am to take him myself. I coached his hockey teams through Pee-Wee and Bantam.”
“All that proves is that you’re a control freak,” I point out, leaning against the tall counter in front of me. Third period’s starting and the players flood the ice, including number ninety-seven. Rhett—my Rhett. My head snaps to Merc. He nods, confirming Team Bravo wasn’t successful. I clench my jaw. No way will I cry in front of Maxwell.
“Touché,” he says, tipping his beer in my direction. “Rhett always loved hockey, but he didn’t always love discipline or getting up in the dark to practice. He’d throw a fit, but I still made him go. It wasn’t easy. Sometimes he hated me, but do you know what he said when he signed with the New York Eagles?”
“Thank you.”
“That’s right. He’s the indestructible force of nature you’ve come to know because I made him that way. I’m not wrong about this either. Breaking up with Jack wrecked him … he hasn’t been the same.”
My brain’s tempted to go on a “maybe he should be with Jack” detour, but then my brain itches with a good fucking point.
“You fucked up his chance with Jack in the first place … This can’t be your way of making up for that, can it?” He doesn’t answer. “Holy fuck, it is.”
Silence settles over the suite. Guess there’s no more talking to do. What would be the point? Maxwell’s hellbent on remedying a mistake that no longer needs fixing, under a misguided illusion of “good parenting”. I focus on Rhett, and the three of us become transfixed by the game. We pull out more beer and Merc puts together snacks from the cupboard. It’s some kind of mutated truce, one that I know the hockey nuts of my family would tell me only the magic of hockey could bring about.
Rhett scores an impossible goal that tips in off the crossbar. “Yeah, baby!” I shout.
Jack gets a breakaway on a powerplay that’s sure to buy him more years for his contract. “Fucking eh, buttercup,” Merc whispers.
At the end of the game, Rhett’s awarded MVP—despite all his penalties—and Maxwell smiles, lifting his chest. Pride shines from every cell of him.
Maxwell polishes off his third beer. “And now it’s time.”
“Time? Time for the big kiss?” I know there’s some kind of social media stunt planned. A small horde of people clean the ice with shovels and a red carpet’s being rolled across the ice.
“Time for a hockey wedding,” he says.
“Motherfucker.” We thought we were the distraction, but this was. “I’ve got to get down there.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Wescott.”
Maxwell’s foot moves.
Crack!
“God damn too cleft-y Elkington jaws,” Mercy says, shaking out his hand. Maxwell’s back hits the carpeted floor. “That won’t keep him down long. Run, kid.”
I’ll thank him later. I hightail it for the ice.
Chapter36
Fake Husbands?
Rhett
