Chapter 5

Today was a short practice,but the day after tomorrow we would fly to an away game, and that was still a bone of contention with Scarlett and Daisy. They'd wanted to come, but it was the middle of a school week.

At least, Jamie coming here would make them happy, my best friend and their former nanny was visiting on my dime to take care of the girls for me, and I missed him so much that I was as excited as the girls to see him. I wished the excitement wasn't dampened by thoughts of what had happened yesterday.

And now, I was meeting the cop—Jackson, he of the pretty eyes and the surly attitude—because I'd seen something else.

I think.

Only, what I'd seen was a stupid detail, and really, had I just imagined it, or even seen anything at all? Maybe I should have talked to Joe first, but he was still unconscious—swelling of the brain, according to Lazlo, who'd answered my message at four a.m. He was close with Joe's partner, and at least he had access to information—the hospital were waiting for the swelling to ease, but they were hopeful everything was okay.

Seemed like Lazlo hadn't been able to sleep either.

What if it had been worse? What if that guy had shot Joe? What if I'd walked in on a murder? Would he have killed me as well? What would've happened to my girls if I'd gotten hurt? My will stated that Jamie would have guardianship. I knew he loved the girls, and I knew he'd agreed, but did I want to leave them the same as their mom? What if?—

"Heads up!" someone shouted, and I got a face full of wet towel, which was enough to snap me out of my worries.

"The fuck?" I yanked the towel off my face, ready to wreak vengeance on whoever had done this, only to come face to face with Cap himself, who was grinning ear to ear.

"Still got the aim," he announced to the room, but no one said anything because there was no one there.

It was me and him. Somehow, the rest of the team had finished getting dressed and left, and I was still sitting in my cubby, lost in thought.

"Are you going home?" Charles asked, sitting in the next cubby and knocking my leg with his.

"Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking…" I shrugged.

"If you're worried about being here, then I've gotta say, I really admire the way you play. You've got this style; it's like classic hockey, you know? Just gritty and real."

A small smile found its way onto my lips. I"d always taken pride in my style of play: nothing fancy, simply good, honest hockey. "I just play the game the only way I know how," I replied.

"And it's good, so yeah, you don't need to worry about the hockey, if that's what's got you spaced out."

Ah, this was why it was Cap sitting next to me—he'd thought I needed a pep talk. Maybe I did—maybe I needed to hear that I was doing okay, but it wasn't that which had made me sit so quietly like an idiot.

"Sorry, just a lot on my mind. I fit here on the team."

"You do." He frowned. "So, if it's not hockey stuff, what is it? Is it the girls? Clare asked me to ask you if you needed help with them over the next few days. They could always stay at our house if you're struggling to find a nanny?"

My heart filled with happy then. I'd worried about how I would fit in with the team, but from the captain down, everyone had been so welcoming and supportive.

"Actually, their old nanny is on his way back from a work placement in Australia, and he's stopping and staying with them."

"Wow, that's a long way to go to cover childcare."

"Jamie is more than just a nanny," I said without thinking that maybe I needed to qualify that.

"‘More than just a nanny', eh?"

I glanced at Charles, and he was grinning.

"No, not like that. He's my best friend, and the girls love him."

"Okay, so you have childcare this time, but you know, if there's some way we can help, or you have anything else you want to talk about, you know where I am, right?" Charles tapped the phone he was holding.

"Sure, Cap."

He stood and stretched, wincing as he raised his left arm. "Jeez, do you ever think you're getting too old for this game?" he asked.

I smirked. "Never."

By the time I was slipping on shoes and doing one last check on my hair, it was nearly time to meet the cop. And that was when I started second guessing his suggestion to meet at a steakhouse, of all things. I pulled up maps, found the place he'd suggested, tucked away on the side road, and I was there with ten minutes to spare, glancing at the open seating area and telling the server that there was a booking.

The table was right on the edge of the seating area, and I sat facing the restaurant, sipping water, checking the menu, and wondering if this was a brunch thing, a steak thing, or maybe a ‘we're-not-eating-anything' coffee.

He arrived ten minutes later, a yellow Honda spitting him out onto the sidewalk. The car parked, and he leaned in, giving attitude to whoever was driving, who then drove off. Jackson weaved through tables to get to me, giving a wave to the server, who smiled at him. Did she know him? Was he a regular here? I'd seen him at practices before, so I guessed he knew the area, but the thought that we were meeting at a regular spot for him made me feel uneasy.

Like this wasn't me telling him what I thought I'd seen.

"Mr. Cowan," he said as he took the seat facing the street, shuffling his chair so he was more on the corner and could see the restaurant as well. He seemed just as tired as he'd been yesterday, if not worse, and his day-old stubble had become two-day stubble, and he'd bitten his lower lip somehow, then worried at it, so it looked sore. I assumed that, between yesterday and now, he'd showered, given his hair lay in fluffy layers and he smelled of cedar and heat.

I'm smelling what now?

"Call me Oliver, or Oli, or hell, Cowboy, if you want, but please, drop the Mr. Cowan," I deadpanned.

The server came over and, without even checking the menu, Jackson spoke up. "The Blue Burger, no onions. Leave the salad, please, but extra fries, and water," he said with a smile that the server returned. The server was smiling way too hard, and I felt a pinch of…

Of what? Jealousy? Fuck's sake, Oliver.

At least Jackson was ordering food, and my rumbling belly told me I needed food too.

"Chicken salad, hold the dressing, side plain pasta, and I'll stick with the water, as well," I ordered.

She left with another smile and then, it was only me and Jackson.

"Do you always meet witnesses in restaurants?" I asked and leaned on my elbows, daring him to lie to me.

"Yes," he muttered gruffly, then cleared his throat. "No, not really. But I needed to eat, and this is close to where you were. I have an hour."

"Well, it's probably nothing, and this meeting might be a waste…"

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" The server returned with the water and sashayed away, but I noticed he didn't watch her leave.

"I think the guy with the gun took a photo from the board behind Joe." That came out in a rush, and I sat back. Now, he was going to laugh me out of the restaurant.

"Go on," he encouraged, settling into the chair and leaning back as if he had all the time in the world.

The detail from the clinic that had nudged its way forward in my mind in the small hours of this morning after I'd gotten off the phone with Lazlo—a detail that had seemed insignificant at the time—had suddenly become all I could think about.

Was the photo important? Who the fuck knew, but the man with the gun… before he shouted about codes in that do-it-or-die threat, had hesitated and glanced at something in his hand. It could have been simply because someone had interrupted what he'd been doing, or it could have been something else. It was a photo of Joe with a group of staff from the clinic all smiling on some happier day, one that normally was on the bulletin board behind Joe's desk, and he was holding it.

I realized then—there was something else in the gunman's eyes. A flicker of something that went beyond the desperation of the moment, or the evil threat.

"It was a photo that Joe kept up on his board." I moved my fingers to approximate the size and glanced up to see him staring at my hands. "A picture of Joe and some staff on a hike, the first one they did to raise money way back. At least, that is what he said it was a picture of. I mean, I didn't recognize half the people in the photo." I shrugged. "But did the guy with the gun know Joe? Or someone in the photo?"

Jackson tugged out his phone, and for a moment, I thought I"d lost him. He scrolled, then placed the phone on the table, turning it to face me. The photo was a crime scene photo, not official, a little blurry, as if he'd taken it on his phone—was he allowed that on his phone? Hell, was I even supposed to see these?

I was at the damn scene, idiot; I've already seen it.

"That's the board, and the photo was where?" he asked and leaned over the phone, so our heads were almost touching. That scent of his, the stubble, the sore lip, his green eyes so focused, and I swallowed hard. Head in the game, Cowboy.

I peered closer, then gestured to a space on the side. "If I remember right, that was where it was. Do you think the armed guy taking it is significant?"

Jackson sat back in his chair. "Could be. It's a thread, a thin one perhaps, but something that might be worth pulling."

Food arrived then, and he dived into his burger as if he hadn't eaten all day. Which maybe he hadn't. Was anyone looking after him? He had sauce on his tie; he was exhausted. Maybe he needed someone to get him to stop with the self-destruction and get a life.

Says the man who fights grief and spends all his free time working out so he can play a game he's falling out of love with.

"Oodurger," he mumbled around a mouth of food, and I translated it as "good burger".

"I've never eaten here before." I thought I'd go with some conversation, but he never got to answer, or expand on what a cool place it was, or why he knew the menu so well. A car parked with a press of the horn, at the same time as Jackson's phone vibrated and moved on the slippery tablecloth.

"Let's go!" someone called from the car—the same cop from yesterday, the younger one, Mack.

After muttering "shit," Jackson quickly gathered what was left of his burger, grabbed a handful of fries, then stared at the table.

"I've got this," I said.

"I'll call you," he said, then left with a "sorry" and a "later." The car vanished, and the entire restaurant went from staring at him to chatting again.

I finished my lunch, paid the check, and headed home. I'd done my bit—told the cop what I thought. Not much else I could do now.

I hoped he got to finish his burger.