Page 37 of The Grumpy Defenseman
Me: Coffee tomorrow?
Bella responded before the next red light.
Bella: That depends. Am I being summoned as counsel, witness, or emotional damage control?
I stared at the screen. My eyes burned, which was just the sun.
Me: Yes.
Bella: What happened?
Me: Tomorrow.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Bella: Usual place. I’ll be there.
No prying. No demand for a full statement before I was ready to give one.Just the steady availability of a woman who knew when to cross-examine and when to simply show up.
I drove home through San Antonio traffic that moved too slowly and a sunset that had the audacity to be beautiful. Inside my condo, I set my camera bag by the door, sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinets, and pressed my palms flat against the cool tile.
Tomorrow I would be professional. Precise. I would walk into that rink with my camera and none of the warmth that had gotten me here. I would do my job. I would be excellent at my job. I would give no one, not Sandra, not Brick, and certainly not Evan McKinney, any reason to question my professionalism.
I would be human Switzerland. Composed. Above the fray.
And if the man with the four-second kiss wanted to know why the temperature had dropped, he could figure itout himself. I was done walking toward people who were not ready to be met.
I pulled my phone out and typed one more message.
Me: Bella, does your offer to send a detective still stand?
Three dots. Then:
Bella: Always. What do you need?
Me: Just checking.
I set the phone on the tile, leaned my head back against the cabinet, and closed my eyes.
The saxophone from Jazz, TX was still in my head.
And now it sounded like something I had lost.
Evan
Ishould have left the building.
Practice had ended four hours ago. The locker room was empty. The cleaners had come and gone. The facility had settled into the after-hours hum I usually only heard when I was the first one in, not the last one still there.
I was on the leg press doing sets of weight I had no business doing without a spotter, and the only reason I was stilldoing them was that the alternative was sitting in my condo with my own face.
Going home meant time to think about her face when I said it: the half-smile from Brick’s joke breaking into recognition.
I added another plate.
Bad idea. I knew it was a bad idea. I racked it anyway.
The weight-room door opened.
