Page 77 of Home Ice

“He came here late at night, nearly midnight. Talked for an hour with his hands and ate half my lunch I was saving for the next day. He squared that plane to the bench without knowing he did it, and I’ve left it there since. He kissed me, and I stood there like a struck post.” I sipped my tea. “I sat at Ma’s table at that gala and watched him put his arm around you for the cameras after we’d already kissed.”

Max was quiet. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“How long did you know?” he asked. “Before the kiss.”

“Probably since the first time we met. I didn’t know what it was yet. I knew by the ribbon stripe texts.”

“Ribbon stripe texts?”

“He found a striped board in a hotel in Dallas, and I texted with him about it when he was on a flight back to Chicago.”

“Okay,” Max breathed. Then, gently: “Does he know?”

“No,” I said.

“Niko.”

“He doesn’t know.” I got up off the stool. I couldn’t do the next part sitting down. “He kissed me twice. Then he came here the night the story broke, and he stayed. He knows there is something, but he hasn’t heard the word. I tell myself the timing’s wrong. He’s twenty, Max. His whole life is on fire in the papers. The last thing he needs—“

“That’s not why,” Max said.

I stopped.

“That’s a reason,” he said. “It’s a kind one, but I’ve watched you my whole life, and you have never once told anyone what they are to you first. You load-test it and then say it once it’s a proven fact. It’s not the timing with Rafe.” He paused. “Say the real reason.”

I planted both hands on the bench and looked at them.

“He’s the one, Max. Rafe walked into my shop with the smoothest surface I’ve ever read in my life. Every answer pleasant, every edge sanded, and the itch nearly ate me alive. I pushed on everything. And every time, the weight was there. He’s not a fake, no matter how many times someone in the media says it.”

“So that’s why you haven’t told him. Because he’s real.”

“You haven’t met yours yet, Max. It’s terrifying. I know he’s real the way I know quartersawn from flatsawn, and my gut knew it first.”

Max stood. “So, now I’m going to tell you why I drove over here. I’ve been in my apartment all week watching a machine I know better than anyone eat two of the most important people in my life, and I’ve figured out what fixes it.”

He moved around the room. He did it when he presented his best ideas.

“Walk through this with me. The media story runs on one rail: the arrangement was fake, and that means Rafe himself is fake. It doesn’t matter how many times we correct them. It will always mean to them we’re protecting a lie.”

I nodded.

“I’m the victim. Varga bought us a night, but he’s a teammate. They won’t let him hold them back for long.” He turned toward me. “Now, there’s a man they are ignoring. His name is out there because my whole family is public knowledge. Still, they know nothing about this man. What if this man sits in his own shop, in front of his own bench, and he says who Rafe actually is? Fifteen minutes. There is one chair and one light. I shoot it, cut it and post it—“

“On your channels,” I said.

“Yes.”

“The victim puts his brother on camera, Max. They’ll say you staged me, and the team is paying you off. Same machine, one step removed.”

He didn’t flinch. He’d been waiting for that.

“Some will say that,” he said. “For about six hours. Then two things will happen. One is they’ll check whether the carpenter has anything to sell, and he doesn’t. Your website is basic information and a phone number. Two, the sympathy money dies the minute it posts. Every offer on my desk depends on me being a victim, and the video ends that. My windfall is gone. The team can never match what national exposure on a morning show does for me.” He spread his hands. “It costs me everything, and I’m glad to pay it.”

The joint held. I’d pushed on it, and it held.

“No,” I said.

“Niko—“