Chapter 17

17

Luke

"All right, it has to be said—that man is a babe," I say, pointing my burrito at the TV where Corwin Sanhover's sweaty face is getting a close-up as he sits down on the bench and pulls his helmet off. Across the room, Marcos sighs and shakes his head. On the couch next to me, Max squints at the screen and tilts his head to the side.

"Yeah, I agree. A couple years ago, though, they signed Nigel St. James—here, look him up quick—and that man is a babe." Max waits, watching as I pull up an internet browser and toggle over to images. I whistle, and he nods, vindicated. "Right? Kinda looks like you, actually."

"Maximillian Frederick Kuemper, you have a type!"

"Nope, still wrong," he says idly, but making no move to tell me what his full name actually is. "That one's pretty good, though. Makes me sound like a Duke."

"The Duke of my pants, maybe."

"Can you not?" Marcos says, scowling at me as Max snorts with laughter, barely managing not to choke on his bite of burrito. Grinning, I wink at Marcos who only shakes his head and turns back to the TV.

"Damn, that guy's hot, too!" I exclaim, as the camera pans to one of the Calgary players. Max nods.

"That's Grayson Brody. He's a monster—6'7" and 230 pounds. Calgary locked him in on an eight-year-no-trade contract after he had a record-breaking season a few years ago. He got six assists in a single game, and scored a goal the other night in their game against Dallas. And?—."

"Maxy, love, all of that is very fascinating, and the large man is attractive. But I was talking about the dude next to him."

Marcos snorts at my obvious attempt to redirect the hockey stat tirade. Max squints at the TV again, face lighting up when he realizes who I'm referring to.

"Oh! Andrei Zolkov. He used to play for South Carolina—in his rookie year. He's playing for the Russian Olympic team this year, did you know that?"

"No," I say seriously, "I did not know that."

"Well, he is! I couldn't believe they didn't invite him to All-Star weekend this year, he's better than?—."

A knock at the front door interrupts Max and all three of us swivel our heads to look toward the front of the apartment. Another firm rap echoes through the apartment; Marcos sets his plate down on the coffee table and wipes his hands on his pants as he walks over to answer it.

"You guys expecting someone?" I ask, popping the last of my burrito into my mouth a touch sadly. I wish I'd ordered two.

"I'm not. Marcos might be, I guess." He shrugs, leaning against me. I throw an arm over his shoulder and scoot closer, grabbing the remote and muting the TV while Marcos answers the door.

"Max Kuemper?" A stranger's voice travels through the now-silent apartment as Marcos pulls open the front door. Max stiffens, turning his head toward the entryway so quickly, I can hear his neck pop. I tighten my arm around him. From our vantage point on the couch, the only thing we can see is Marcos' back, ramrod straight.

"No, I'm his roommate, Marcos Rivera."

"Is he home? We'd like to speak with him."

Marcos looks over his shoulder at us, hand gripped around the door and stance wide as he blocks the entrance. Max stands up, and I follow close behind him as he joins Marcos at the front door. There are two police officers standing in the vestibule.

"I'm Max," he says. I put a hand on his back in silent support.

"Hello, son, my name is Jim Hughes, and this is my partner, Martina Suarez. We'd like to speak with you, if you've got a few moments."

"Okay," Max says, nodding. Marcos hasn't moved, still standing stationary in the doorway and partially blocking Max from view.

"May we come in? We won't take up too much of your time, but it would be best to do this inside."

My stomach sinks at the words and Marcos looks over at me, mouth pinched tight with unease. We both know what this is about. Max steps back, colliding with me where I'd been standing too close to him.

"Sure, come in," he says, fingers touching my wrist as he scrabbles for my hand. I link our fingers together and squeeze .

Marcos lets them inside, dropping his arm and closing the door behind them. The entry hall is far too small to comfortably fit five people, but none of us know what the protocol is for police officers being in your apartment. Are we supposed to offer them coffee?

"Uhm," Max starts, clearly struggling with the same conundrum as me, "do you want something to drink?"

"No, that's all right, thank you," Officer Hughes says, smiling kindly. He gestures toward the recently-vacated living room. "How about we sit down?"

Max, looking alarmed at being asked to sit down in his own apartment, walks back over to the couch and sits on the edge of his seat. I sit beside him, as close as I can get without sitting directly in his lap. Marcos stands, arms crossed tight over his chest, across the room. Officer Hughes perches on the edge of the coffee table, while his partner takes the chair.

"Uhm," Max starts again, visibly uncomfortable with the silence. His grip on my right hand is so tight it's painful, "what's going on?"

"Would you be more comfortable if we talked in private?" Officer Suarez asks, her voice lovely and almost musical. "Or would you like your friends to stay?"

"Stay," he answers immediately. "I want them to stay."

She nods, smiling at him kindly. Both officers have friendly, compassionate faces. My heart beats a little quicker at the thought, and I glance back over at Marcos, who's staring stonily at the floor.

"No problem," Officer Hughes says easily. He smiles at Max again, who doesn't return it. "So, as you might have guessed, we're here about what happened back in October."

"Okay," Max replies. Marcos' arms tighten visibly, as though he's trying to hold his chest cavity together .

"We're here to inform you that an official arrest has been made using the DNA from the rape kit, as well as a witness statement. Theodore Cox will be charged and tried for multiple counts of rape, as well as possession and unlawful distribution of an illegal drug. Robert Cruz is also being charged with distribution, as well as assault."

"Okay," Max repeats. My hand is throbbing in pain where he's gripping me; bringing our linked hands into my lap, I lay the fingers of my other hand on his arm, stroking gently.

"Do you have any questions?" Officer Suarez asks softly.

"No?" He replies, but breaks eye contact with the cops and looks over at Marcos who lets the scowl slip from his face just far enough to appear polite.

"You said ‘charged and tried for rape'—does that mean that Max will be expected to testify?"

"Possibly," Officer Hughes allows, and then holds up a hand to waylay Marcos. "But, unlikely. As I said, DNA evidence and several eye-witness reports tell the story. And Mr. Kuemper," here he looks over at Max, "doesn't remember the night in question. There would be little to gain from asking him to testify."

"But Theo is being charged, right?" Marcos presses. "He's going to pay for what he did, right?"

"The state of South Carolina has decided to press criminal charges, yes." Officer Suarez says carefully.

"Was Max the only… did the DNA match against anyone else?"

The silence following this question is deafening. I can tell neither officer wants to answer and both are trying to find a circuitous way of doing so.

"The state is pursuing three separate rape charges, and two for sexual assault." Officer Hughes answers, diplomatically. It's a politically correct way of saying there are multiple victims. I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat.

Marcos chews on his lip but lapses back into thorny silence. Beside me, Max is silent and unmoving, hand cold against mine. I want the cops to leave so I can wrap him up in a blanket and hold him; I want this whole fucking mess to be over with so he can move on with his life.

"So…that's it?"

I jolt at Max's voice. I wasn't expecting him to speak again. He's glancing between the two officers, voice uncertain.

"For now, yes. You will hear from the prosecution eventually, but for now—that's it." Officer Hughes stands, looking down at where Max and I are still seated on the couch. I hope he doesn't expect us to walk him to the door—I'm not sure Max's legs could hold him up. He's shaking like a leaf, body pressed hard against me. It makes me hate them unnecessarily, even though it's not their fault that their job brought them here.

"If that's all, I'll walk you out," Marcos says rudely. From the look he gives us, I can tell he's noticed how I'm the only thing holding Max upright. If I were to move, he'd fall.

"That's all," Officer Suarez says, nodding politely to Max and I while gesturing for her partner to precede her toward the door. She places a business card gently on the coffee table and waits for Max to meet her eyes. "You can reach out if you think of any more questions."

Max and I sit in silence as they leave. I crane my neck to watch Marcos at the front door, waiting for the deadbolt to be slid home before speaking. Smoothing my fingertips up and down the inside of his forearm, I bring Max's eyes to mine.

"Hello, you," I say, and he smiles .

"I'm fine," he says, and then grimaces at the lie. "We already knew it was Theo."

"Right," I agree. Except, now we know : a DNA match from Max's rape kit. My stomach revolts, and I wish I hadn't scarfed down my lunch so fast. Something tells me I might be reintroduced to it soon, if I keep thinking about Theo Cox.

"I hope he goes to prison and somebody cuts his fucking throat," Marcos says, stalking back into the room and snatching up his plate. I watch as he walks into the kitchen and dumps the remaining half of his burrito into the trash.

"Me, too," I agree.

"Jesus," Max sighs, finally loosening his grip on my hand. I try to shake out my fingers without him noticing, skin tingling as blood is reintroduced. "I hope I don't have to go to court or anything. What would I even say? I don't remember anything."

"I know, baby," I whisper. Marcos, slamming cupboards in the kitchen for no apparent reason other than to hear the noise, is muttering angrily under his breath in rapid Spanish. "They'll probably just…interview you, or something. I'm sure you won't be needed to testify. Officer Hughes didn't think it likely."

"Other people must have come forward. He said ‘several eye-witness reports', which means they must have more than just Cruz's. I wonder if someone else filed a police report," Marcos muses, making the sudden switch back to English. He sounds pissed. Apparently, slamming the cupboard doors hasn't helped. "I bet that piece of shit has done this before. I bet Max's wasn't the only kit that fucker's DNA matched with. Fuck!"

Max jolts at the unexpected rise in volume. I open my mouth to suggest Marcos calm the hell down, when he beats me to it.

"I'm going for a run," he says, stalking over to the front door and slipping his shoes on. Predictably, the front door slams behind him. Max slumps against the back of the couch, taking the pressure off of my arm.

"Jesus," he mutters again, closing his eyes and tipping his head back.

"Maxy."

"I'm tired of this," he sighs, "I am so fucking tired."

"I know." Helplessly, I reach out and brush his hair back from his forehead. He sighs again, but opens his eyes and looks at me.

"This could end up being a nightmare when I join the NHL in a year. What if…what if people find out about this?"

Though he's trying hard to modulate his tone, I can hear the undercurrent of fear. It fucking kills me that there is almost nothing I can do to help him. Everything about this situation is beyond my control.

"I don't know much about the legal system…but I think they usually try to keep sexual assault victims' names private. I don't think they'd—I don't think they'd broadcast your picture out."

"Okay," he says, sounding unconvinced and still frightened.

"Hey, don't worry about that right now, okay? The important thing is making sure you're fine and that Theo gets what's coming to him."

"Right." Max nods, looking sightlessly at the muted TV.

"Do you want to call your doctor?" I ask, nervously watching his face. He looks fine, but that doesn't mean much where Max is concerned. He doesn't ask for help with words—he does it by not sleeping or eating.

"No," he says, and then laughs. "Actually, you know who I want to call?"

"Who?"

"Coach Mackenzie." He grins, shaking his head. "He's the one who talked me into seeing a therapist, but if I had my way, I'd just talk to him."

"Call him, then. He said you could."

"No," Max shakes his head again, "I'm okay for now. You're here, and that's all I need."

"I'm here," I confirm, wrapping an arm over his back and pulling him back into my side. He comes without a fight, tucking himself under my armpit and leaning his head on my shoulder. Turning the volume back on, we let the hockey game distract us. Corwin Sanhover is bent over, stick held loosely across his thighs as he waits to take a face off. Cute, but let's be honest. He's got nothing on Max Kuemper.