Page 50 of Omega’s Forward

I listen to two men I’ve never met argue about me and whether the code is dead. It doesn’t take long before I shut it off and drive the rest of the way listening to nothing at all.

My agent meets me in the parking garage with the union lawyer, a small, calm woman who reads her notes one more time in the elevator and doesn’t try to make conversation.

There are two camera crews on the sidewalk out front. My agent walks me past them with a hand on my back and a smile. I say good and nothing else. Somebody shouts a question about McNally’s, whether I stand by what I said about ownership. I keep walking.

Fuck. I regret saying that. It was stupid of me. Really stupid.

Sacco is in the waiting area when we come up, wearing his hearings suit. JP and Marchetti are with him.

I don’t see Everett Rourke. I take in a deep surreptitious breath. I can’t pick up his scent either. It makes part of me want to shrivel up inside.

Sacco walks toward me. I put my hand out. “Coach.”

“Callahan.” He looks me over once. “You’ll do.”

My phone buzzes. It’s Linus, from his couch: a photo of himself in the neck brace, thumbs up, good luck captan. The kid is a whizz on the ice but he cannot spell to save his life.

I send back a “thanks man,” then put my phone away.

JP goes to the machine down the hall and hands me a coffee without asking.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” He studies me. I look away. He’s the only one who knows about Everett, and I know he wants to ask about it. The only thing stopping him is Sacco’s presence and I’m grateful for that.

I take a sip of the coffee. It is absolutely terrible. I take another sip anyway.

He looks at me a beat longer than I like, then drinks his own terrible coffee and turns to Sacco. “No word from the boss, then?”

It’s the question I haven’t dared ask. I am more grateful to JP than I care to admit.

Sacco settles into one of the league’s stiff chairs and studies the carpet. “I won’t speak ill of Gordie,” he mutters. “Thirty years. He was my best friend, but I will go to my grave not understanding why he left this club to that idiot omega. Thousands of people love the Barons. All of us. The fans. Fucking thousands. So why leave it to him?”

“Yeah,” I say. And I mean it. That’s where I’ve landed.

JP says nothing. He has found something to study out the window, hands in his pockets.

It’s Marchetti who goes off. “Yeah. And he can’t be bothered to turn up? I mean Callahan’s the fucking captain and he’s not here. Has anyone even seen him?”

“Nah,” Sacco says. “Not for weeks. And he hasn’t replied to my phone calls. I get a lot from that bitch assistant of his, though. She’s always up my ass about one thing or another. Always something dumb. Gordie would have been in that room before the panel was. This guy couldn’t send a lawyer. He couldn’t send an email.”

I nod along. More than couldn’t send a lawyer. He actively sabotaged me, the son of a bitch.

Before I think about it, I open my mouth. “I ran into Dorn a couple of days ago.” Faces turn to look at me. “I was going for”—pumpkin spice latte—“coffee and he was in the line behind me.”

“Hope you punched him in the mouth,” Marchetti says.

“I wish, but no. He—” I hesitate. Should I really share this? Why the fuck not? It happened. “He said to me that everyone knows Rourke’s pushed the league to give me a harder penalty.”

Marchetti’s mouth falls open. “What the fuck?”

“Is it true?” JP asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Probably. Guy hasn’t made it a secret what he thinks of bust-ups on the ice.”

“Yeah, bet he did.” Marchetti sits back in the chair. “Explains why he isn’t showing his face.”

Yeah. That it does. The realization hits me harder than I thought. Somehow I’d expected that despite everything, he might still turn up, but he won’t.