Page 28 of Puck You Both

Delighted, the reporter laughs. There, a usable quote that reveals nothing. He thanks me and goes hunting for someone less disciplined.

Theo is his next mistake.

***

BY NINE, THE event finds its cruising altitude. Frank calls raffle winners over a microphone that dies every fourth word, and Hendrix patches the gaps by screaming "Or else," lending the prize announcements the tone of organized crime. Every time the campaign total crosses another thousand, Mama Paws rings a brass handbell; by the fifth ring, our rookie flinches whenever she reaches toward the table.

At the far end of the bar, behind an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign, a staircase climbs toward the office, narrow enough that a hockey player takes it one shoulder first.

I noticed it within thirty seconds of arriving. The office upstairs holds the sponsor packets and the live donation tally; Frank walked me through the setup before doors opened. The door itself has an old latch that won't catch unless somebody pulls it firmly shut.

I tested that too.

Intent or not, planning creates options.

The schedule lives in my head down to the minute. Theo's black jeans are making his ass difficult to ignore, and since the photo session, Wall has looked at him fourteen times.

Fifteen now.

Wall catches himself and turns back to Washington.

The plan formed yesterday morning, and I told Theo none of it. If I had, he'd have discussed nothing else for thirty-six consecutive hours. So for now, I’m the only man in on it.

At 9:27, Hunter sets a club soda on the bar for Wall. I intercept it and carry it across the room myself.

Eleven steps. Somewhere around the fourth, my pulse picks up.

Wall stands by the raffle board, one hand in his pocket, giving the prize list a level of scrutiny it has not earned. He tracks my approach without moving anything but his eyes.

I hand him the glass. His fingers close around it. He looks at the soda, then at me, and one eyebrow asks the question he won't.

I step in closer than the room requires, inside the space men leave each other, close enough that the crowd noise seals around us. Wall goes very still. Up close his eyes are doing the thing they do in a shootout: giving me nothing.

His grip, however, is telling a story. Ice clicks against the sides of the glass.

"Theo and I are going up to the office at ten." I say it low, tipped up toward his ear, and feel him stop breathing. "Sponsor numbers."

A muscle feathers along his jaw. The glass creaks and he loosens his fingers a fraction.

I let one beat pass. Precisely one. "In case there's anything you want to look at."

His throat moves.

Deniable, every word of it.

Then I step back and walk away without waiting for a read, and the not-knowing follows me across the floor like heat off a stove. My spine tracks Wall’s position for ten straight steps, and I don't turn around. Turning around would ask the question twice, and I've asked it exactly as clearly as I intended to.

At the other end of the bar, I pick up a sponsor packet and review the same paragraph for four minutes.

At 9:38, Mama Paws rings the bell. Shortly after, Hendrix bites Becker during a disputed attempt to form a darts rules committee, resolving the matter through binding arbitration. I avoid checking my watch for what feels like twenty minutes.

Four. It has been four.

At 9:50, I stop pretending.

Over by the dartboard, Theo is somehow losing and winning simultaneously—fewer points than Becker, most of the cash, thanks to invented side bets about which Viper can distract which Wolf mid-throw. Lindqvist has earned forty dollars by standing behind Petrov and slowly peeling a banana.

I decide not to ask.