Page 162 of Forbidden Hockey

“No, you don’t. I know you don’t feel worthy of being my dad, just like I don’t feel like I’m worthy of being your son. But we’re gonna stop that. I need you just as much as I need Stacey. I need you with me, too.”

The words hit someplace deep. A tightness I’ve carried for over a decade eased some.

“You’re gonna have me,” I promised him, fucking grateful I didn’t give in to revenge. I’d get him into his full-fledged safety era some other way.

“And in case it’s not clear, I’m so fucking happy for you and Dirk.”

“Yeah?” I knew he’d be cool about it, but hearing him say it clears the air.

“Yep. I’m taking credit—I found him, and he’s perfect for you.”

“I didn’t like keeping it from you, but?—”

“But Dirk’s never forgiven me for that time I totally busted us—accidentally—and got him grounded for a week? Yeah, I know.”

Then we ate cinnamon buns with Hunter, who didn’t say much, swallowing down a few acid comments I know were burning his tongue. He pulled Dirk aside before we left, but Dirk came back to me smiling, so I let go of my overprotective urges. The dust was going to have to settle for Hunter, and we’d have to let time do its thing.

I’m thunder dressed as a person today. Dirk wouldn’t stay over. Something, something, something about needing to spend time at the house for “old time’s sake”. It’s bullshit, is what it is. I’m in such a mood about it, Penny shuffles me out the door to get coffee from the fancy place down the street.

“Don’t come back until Dirk’s on his way to work.”

“I thought I was the boss around here,” I’d grumbled, but I went, hoping the fresh air would change my disposition. I wenton an extra-long walk around the neighborhood, hitting up the fancy coffee place on the way back.

Taking a sip of my overpriced coffee, I stride into the restaurant.

Someone’s sitting at the bar, and he’s eating. What the fuck? We’re not even open yet. But—a-fucking-stonishingly—Maxwell Elkington has a full plate of barbeque ribs in front of him and he’s obliterating them, using his hands like an uncouth barbarian. It’s so uncharacteristic of the aristocrat that if Jack were here, he’d claim we had another Mandela Effect situation on our hands. It’s Maxwell, but the version from a universe parallel to this one.

I don’t think that’s what’s going on. What I think is that Maxwell becomes more Maxwell every day. The mask he’s worn loosens a little more and a little more, and what I thought was a scheme of some kind wasn’t at all. It was his unravelling, and I’ve been one of the few in a private audience.

He’s out of place in other ways, too. His usually perfect hair is unkempt, shielding his eyes, making him look wild. His shirt’s unbuttoned, exposing his toned, tanned body underneath. There’s … is that blood on his shirt, on his hands too, or rib sauce? Know what, maybe I don’t wanna know. Maybe I tell myself it’s rib sauce.

“Hey, hey, bestie,” Maxwell says in a smooth, booming voice, waving a sticky, messy hand.

“Maxwell.” I walk behind the bar so I can get a good look at him and because I want a barrier between us at all times. His knuckles are bruised. “Have you been in a fight?”

He shrugs. “It’s best not to ask questions.”

A sinking feeling buries itself in my gut. “I thought you would be pissed at me for cancelling on you.”

Maxwell makes a “forget it” type gesture with his hand. “Water under the bridge. I get it. Your man took issue with it.I’ve done the same when my man’s displeased with me. Anyway, I always knew that was a potential outcome, and I’d always intended to clean up the mess for you if that was the case. You won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

He winks.

That’s a problem.

I study the “sauce that could be blood” on his collar. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what he did.

It’s best not to ask questions.

Yeah, okay.

But even if he did do what I’m starting to suspect he did, he wouldn’t do his own dirty work, would he? Maxwell delegates; he’s not an “in the trenches” kind of guy.

I think.

And did he just instill the fear of God into Robin? Or is Robin dead? I’ve done my fair share of the former. Sometimes all someone needs to stay away is a good dose of brass knuckles. But Maxwell’s the kind of man who likes a job well done.

The kitchen door swings open. Maverick leans out of it. “Need anything else, Pops?”