Page 43 of Omega’s Forward

“How’s the coffee?” I ask, because I need to land us on easier ground and it’s the only thing in reach.

“Good.” He looks down into the mug. A pause. “Good, but I am wishing I brought some syrup with me.”

“Syrup?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Probably.”

“There’s a place on Fifth. Rosie’s. I found it my second week back, between meetings.” He runs a thumb along the rim of the mug. “They do a pumpkin spice latte. Year-round. It’s mostly syrup and it barely qualifies as coffee. They sell the syrup there. I wish I’d bought some.”

“A pumpkin spice latte.”

“With an extra shot. It’s sickly sweet but I love it.”

I’m already off the bed, hunting for my keys. “Rosie’s on Fifth. I’ll go — it’s the least I can do. You’ve had a rough week, and I’m a free man until further notice.”

He opens his mouth, looking surprised, then closes it again. “Thank you,” is what he ends up saying.

I pull a cap low and take the truck.

Rosie’s is a skinny storefront between a dry cleaner and a phone repair place. I can smell the cinnamon from the sidewalk. The kid at the register doesn’t look up when I order. One pumpkin spice latte, extra shot. One black coffee. I keep the cap low, wait at the end of the counter, and think about the look on Everett’s face when he said “breeding stock.”

No wonder he balked at matching with me. I’d have done the same in his position.

The door opens behind me, and under all the cinnamon I catch a scent I know from a hundred faceoffs.

“Well, look at that.” It’s Cade Dorn, in a hoodie with a splint across his nose. The bruising under his eyes has turned green at the edges. “Callahan, in the wild.” He’s grinning already. “They let you get your own coffee? I figured your fancy new owner had people running around after you.”

“Dorn.” I turn back to the counter.

“Don’t be like that. We’re practically coworkers this week.” He steps up beside me, close enough that his scent crowds into mine, sharp and wrong. “They’ve already flown me in for the hearing. You believe that? Half the league hits like that and mine’s the one they pull the file on.”

“It was a dick move, Dorn.”

“And you came the length of the ice and broke my nose, so here we both are.” He shrugs. “Mine’s a fine, most likely. Yours, though.” He sucks air through his teeth. “Six games. In the playoff push. That’s rough, big man.”

I watch the kid steam the milk and say nothing.

“You want to know the funny part?” Dorn leans against the counter. “The league wanted two.”

I keep my eyes on the espresso machine.

“Two games and a fine. Standard instigator rate, everybody knows it.” He waits, and when I don’t bite, he sets the hook anyway. “Then I hear your owner called. Don’t go light, make it stick, make it an example. Pushed for eight. They settled on six as a courtesy.”

“You’re lying.”

“Sure I am.” He collects his cup and salutes me with it. “Ask anyone upstairs. Guy does a nice little video about how the old owner had your backs, and a week later the new owner’s on the phone asking the league to bury him. You do the math.” He backs toward the door, delighted with himself. “See you at the hearing, Callahan. Wear the suit. They love the suit.”

The door swings shut behind him.

The kid calls my order. I carry the two cups out to the truck and sit behind the wheel.

Did you even try? I asked him that, standing in the basement, and he looked me in the eye and said no.

He said the league was right and it was long past time an example was made — his exact words. He’d been on the phone all evening by then. The league office, then the league office again.

It’s possible that Dorn is just doing what Dorn does, sticking his blade where it’ll hurt most and skating off.