Everyone said a hello, and I could immediately tell one of the dads knew who I was when he mumbled something to the guy sitting next to him, then sneered at me.
Hell, I was used to that.
“This is Oliver,” Maggie carried on. “He’ll be talking about the practical uses of the glucose monitor.”
I lifted my sleeve, showing them the device in my arm. “This is a CGM, continuous glucose monitor,” I began, then lifted one out of a box in front of me to demonstrate. “It’s not a big thing, but it can alert you to low sugars while your children are sleeping.”
The moms listened, nodding slowly, taking it all in. The dads, though, they were a tougher crowd, their faces etched with a mix of skepticism and something like frustration.
One of the dads, the same one who’d recognized me, a broad-shouldered guy with tired eyes, cut me off. “Is this just a one-day charity thing you do to feel good about yourself, Mr. Hockey Star? My daughter is two! She’s a baby, and you’re sitting there telling us it’s just a tiny thing when we know it’s not! You don’t know shit!” There was an edge to his voice, a challenge.
Before I could respond, Maggie gave him a sharp glare. “Steve,” she hissed, a clear warning in her voice.
I got it, though. It was hard to accept that your kid had a lifelong condition; it could make anyone lash out.
“I don’t know your daughter, sir,” I replied, keeping eye contact, “but I’m here because I know what it’s like. I’ve known the three a.m. scares and the hospital trips. This,” I said, holding up the monitor, “could make a real difference for your children, if you try it.”
The room was silent for a moment, the lone sound the hum of the overhead lights. Steve relaxed a bit. The nurse jumped in to explain the daily insulin routines, and I sat down with the families to talk more about living with diabetes. It wasn’t just about dropping in as a sports figure; it was personal. I was there to help because I understood what they were facing, and maybe could make their lives easier if they needed financial support.
Not that they’d know the last bit, but still, I was giving back the best way I knew.
“Mr. Cowan?”
Steve was the last person out of the room, and I got the sense he wanted to talk to me.
“Hi?” I waited to see what came next. Sometimes, a person never saw the bits of me that weren’t hockey, but I always lived in hope.
“I…” He offered a hand. “I’m sorry for my outburst.”
“It’s all good,” I said and shook his hand warmly.
“I’m on my own, you know, my wife… she’s gone, and it’s just me, and I feel so overwhelmed, and I don’t know what to do.”
“I have an hour; would you like to chat in here? Or get a coffee?”
His eyes widened. “You’d do that?”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course. Let’s go.”
This is what I did best, a beast in the game, but understanding and kind when I was off the ice.
My only regret? That I never got to askJacksonto meet for coffee.
ChapterEight
Jackson
A week had passedsince the incident at the clinic, and we were no closer to finding the jerk who’d done it than we had been on day one. You’d think that with so many witnesses to a crime, we’d have been right on that guy’s doorstep within hours. Sadly, we lived in a huge city with a massive criminal element that made people disappear faster than new iPhones. Mack and I were running out of options and avenues, but we weren’t giving up. Joe was still in an induced coma, so there was no information coming from the victim. We’d tracked down everyone in the missing photo, ran background checks, and confirmed alibis, leaving us with nothing but a list of selfless medical professionals trying to help the poor and indigent in this huge stewpot of glitz and poverty we called Los Angeles.
Oliver had touched base a few times to tug my chain about the lack of results, and a call came through when I was sitting in court testifying in a case against one Randolph Piscotty, a mid-tier racketeer that the DA and my department had been stiff as a fence post to nab. And we had. Granted it was on tax evasion, but hey, we’d pulled him off the streets. Which had opened up a bit of a tussle for power, ending with four dead Piscotty underlings discovered stacked like cordwood in an alley in Pacific Palisades. Since they were linked to the Piscotty crime family, homicide pulled us in to take a peek. It was about as you would think. Four corpses baking in the warm California sun. Just another day in the life.
So yeah, I’d been in court the last time Oliver had jangled my nerves. I’d let the call go to voicemail as the judge was glowering at me from on high. She hated cell phones in her courtroom, even if they were in your pocket. The woman had ears like a bat, and the vibration of a cell phone was like the whine of mosquito wings. I got the look, a warning about my phone, and a sniping little dissertation during the lunch break from the district attorney.
Oliver got a snide little message in return as I stuffed a taco from a truck parked a block from the courthouse in my mouth. Mack rolled his eyes as he wolfed down a burrito. The hockey player replied ten minutes later with a softly worded apology, citing his distress over his friend as the reason he kept poking me. So, being the dear heart that I am, I texted him back saying I understood, and that we were doing all we could. And then I added, because his dark eyes had been haunting me since our lunch at the steakhouse, that if I thought of anything else, I would contact him.
Hopefully, the vision of his eyes and those damned kissable lips would ease up soon. I’d worked my dick pretty hard the past few nights while old episodes ofKojakplayed in the background. Jerking off to the fantasy of a witness to a pretty ugly crime sucking your cock surely had to be against departmental guidelines for proper cop behavior. My brain knew that, but my prick had not gotten the memo. I’d not felt a pull to a man like this in… forever. It freaked me out, yet I couldn’t clear him from my head.
* * *
