6. Zane

6

ZANE

"You should have fucking told me!" I accuse around a massive bite of pizza. "Carson expected me to know already. I expected me to know already."

"Coach made me swear I wouldn't tell," Jace replies calmly. I can hear his wife and kid chattering in the background of the call.

"Fuck Coach!"

Jace chuckles. "Say that to his face and you'll be under the leadership of Almighty Captain Carson before preseason even starts."

"Fuck Carson, too," I grumble. "No one can stand that guy."

" You can't stand him. There's a difference."

I take another bite of pizza and grimace. "You're telling me you think Dickhead Deluth would make a good captain?"

"Fuck no. I'm pro-Zane. You know that. Buuut…" He draws out the single syllable long enough that I have plenty of time to dread whatever level-headed, rational bullshit he's going to say next. "A lot of the younger guys like him. He pals around with them. Treats them like equals."

"Because no one with a fully-developed brain can stand to be around him."

Jace clicks his tongue. "Either way, he has support. You're a better player, but you bolt after games?—"

When the team gets drunk to celebrate a win or mourn a loss.

"—and you skip the team dinners?—"

I can only turn down tequila shots so many times. I'm a recovering addict, not a saint.

"I'm not saying you need to party to become captain," Jace adds quickly, already guessing where my thoughts are headed. "But it would help if everyone saw you as a real person, you know?"

"Sorry I don't have a phone gallery full of pictures of my snot-nosed kid or a wife who sends boxes of cookies to the locker room for people's birthdays."

The kind of women I'm attracted to aren't thoughtful. They don't bake. They turn my life upside down and then disappear, leaving me to spend way too fucking long thinking about quickly I could untie a couple aprons.

I shove more pizza in my mouth and keep right on scowling.

"What the hell are you eating? It sounds like I'm talking to a garbage disposal."

"Cheat day pizza."

Six days out of seven, it's boiled cod, brown rice, and veggies—but for one blessed day each week, I order the biggest pie Marco's Pizzeria makes and eat the entire thing by myself.

"You're addicted," Jace laughs. "I'm going to warn Owen."

"Owen is my NA sponsor. Last I checked, pizza isn't a narcotic."

"No, I guess it isn't," he agrees. "You might throw up on your run tomorrow, but I've seen you a lot worse off."

For the second time today, the years shrink and I'm curled on the floor of my bathroom while Jace breaks down the door from the outside. Paige had been there with me that night, but she left at some point after I passed out. The only reason I didn't overdose next to my toilet is because Jace drove me to the ER where they pumped me full of Narcan.

"You've come a long way, man," Jace says quietly. "If it was up to me, I'd choose you over Carson."

We're verging on sentimental, so I'm relieved when my phone beeps and my assistant's name flashes on the screen. "Hanna is calling. Gotta go."

"You've got captain in the bag," Jace says. "But only because I'm not an option."

"Screw you," I laugh just as I dismiss his call and answer Hanna's. "Hey."

"Did the pizza make it there safe and sound?" she asks. "Do you like the loaded breadsticks? I know how much you like bacon, so I went with the bacon and cheese filling."

I frown and scan the counter. The marble top is bare except for the one nearly-empty box of pizza. "I didn't get breadsticks."

"What?!" I can hear the horror in her voice. "They should be there! I tipped that delivery driver fifty percent to rush everything over."

"It's fine. The pizza is enough."

"But I wanted to celebrate your news," she mutters. " Our news, really. I'm going to be the personal assistant to the captain of the Phoenix Angels. It feels like a promotion for both of us."

Hanna has been my P.A. for the last two years. I never had one before I got sober, but I quickly realized the only way I could force myself to sit down and fill in a weekly planner is if I was high out of my mind. Without the option of a mind-altering substance, I settled on Hanna. She's been organizing my life ever since.

"It's not a done deal. Coach hasn't made his decision yet."

"Coach Popov isn't an idiot. You're the only man for the job. You're incredible, Zane. He knows that."

I clear my throat. "Were you just calling to check on the pizza or do you need something?"

"Oh, right. Well, now, I need to call Marco's and get your money back, but that's not why I called." She chuckles. "I know you wanted me to clear your schedule for tonight, but what about tomorrow morning?"

"Do I have something tomorrow morning?"

"It's just that brunch with the reporter from Phoenix Mag . For the piece about the role of athletics in addiction recovery. I cleared it with the PR director for the team, so that's not an issue. But I didn't know if you were still interested."

I planned to cancel. But what better way to show Coach—and anyone else who doubts me—that I've turned over a new leaf than with some good press?

"Fuck it. Might as well," I tell her. "It'll help with the whole captain thing."

"Not that you need the help," Hanna chimes in warmly.

Someone knocks on the door, saving me from needing to respond. "I gotta go."

"Is someone at the door?" she guesses. "Maybe it's the breadsticks! If it is, let me know. Otherwise, I'm calling in fifteen minutes to get a full refund."

"Roger that."

"Goodnight, Zane," she sing-songs cheerfully. "See you at brunch tomorrow."

I hang up and pad barefoot and bare-chested to the door, then yank it open.

"Oh." The adult woman on the other side is wearing a tweed pantsuit and a look of mild horror. No pizza or breadsticks in sight. "Are you Zane Whitaker?"

I'm about to answer when I notice the small, blonde head peeking out from behind her leg. The little kid jerks back behind the woman when he sees me looking at him.

He's a little young to be a fan, but it wouldn't be the first time someone made their way to my door for an autograph.

I sigh. "Unless you're hiding breadsticks in your suit jacket, I'm not interested. Every other appointment goes through my agent or my personal assistant."

"I know this is out of the blue…" the woman begins, untucking a folder from under her arm.

I wave her off before she can open it. "This is where I live, lady. If you want an autograph, show up at the games like everyone else."

I start to close the door, but the woman shoves her sensible white sneaker into the gap. "Mr. Whitaker, do you know a Paige Foster?"

The blood in my veins turns to ice. Of all the sneaky, stalker-esque ways to get an autograph, that's a new one.

"Who's asking?" I croak.

"I'm Jodie Barnes, the social worker assigned to Aiden's case."

I frown down at the little blonde head that disappears behind the woman's leg again. "Who is Aiden? What does this have to do with Paige?"

What does this have to do with me ?

"Until I know your full relationship to my case?—"

"None," I interrupt. "I don't have a relationship to your case or anything at all to do with Paige anymore. That was a long time ago."

"About four years ago?" she guesses.

If I was smart, I'd slam the door closed and call Hollis. As my agent and a former attorney, he'd want to know the second someone came knocking on my door talking about Paige and my past.

But curiosity gets the better of me.

"Give or take," I confirm. "What's this about?"

"I'm sorry to tell you like this," the woman continues, "but Paige Foster recently passed."

The edges of my vision go hazy. All day long, time has been stretching and condensing like a slinky going down the stairs. My past—a past full of Paige—has felt closer than it has in a long, long time.

Now, this.

"‘Passed'?" I breathe. "Like, she's—Is she?—"

"She's deceased, I'm afraid. And this is her four-year-old son." The woman steps to the side, revealing for the first time the little boy standing behind her. He's standing pigeon-toed in a pair of scuffed light-up sneakers. His blonde hair is too long, too shaggy, hanging down into his blue eyes.

Blue like mine.

I shake my head as the roar in my ears grows louder. "What does this have to do with me?"

"I didn't want to do it like this, but I didn't have a choice. According to the hospital records and everyone in Paige's life, you were the person I needed to call."

"Because I'm her emergency contact?" I guess. I might vaguely remember filling out some forms in an ER one drunken night. "That was years ago. I haven't spoken to her in—It's been years."

"Four years," the woman repeats slowly, like she's handing me the pieces to a very easy puzzle.

"Yeah, four years," I grit out. "It's been a long time. I barely know her anymore."

And now, she's dead.

"Whatever you're looking for, lady, I don't have it."

"What I'm looking for—" She runs a hand down her tired face. " Who I'm looking for, rather, is Aiden's father. According to Ms. Foster… that's you."