Page 29 of Omega’s Forward

That gets a laugh, a small one, the first one, and the room breathes a little. Marchetti passes me my phone from my stall. There’s a text from my sister, three question marks, and nothing from Rourke.

That’s stupid. Why would I expect anything from Rourke? He never sends me messages. Why would he? Still, my mind keeps circling back to him. I felt him watching me the whole time. It took everything I had not to look up at him.

And why am I even thinking about him. There are more important people in my life. I find my locker and grab my jacket and backpack. “I’m going to the hospital.”

“I’m driving,” JP says. He’s still in half his gear. I’m not out of mine at all.

And then the door opens and Sacco walks in, Everett Rourke behind him.

The room stops moving.

The first thing I think is that the guy looks damned good in a suit. He stands just inside the door with his hands loose at his sides and looks at us.

The rink stink is doing me a favor for once. Nothing can hide that scent completely but the sweat from the guys and their boots helps take the edge off. I look away from him, search my backpack for my keys as if he wasn’t there at all. I’m not looking at him.

“Gentlemen,” Sacco says. “Berg’s stable. Scans tonight, more tomorrow. That’s all anybody knows, so don’t bother speculating.” He looks at me last. “Where are you going?”

“Hospital.”

“No,” Everett says. “You’re not.”

It’s the first time the room has heard him speak since the day he told us all he’d be selling us the first chance he got.

His voice does the same thing to me it always does, and I hate that it does it here, in this room, in front of everybody, where I can’t afford to feel one single thing.

I turn and look at him properly. That’s a mistake. His eyes are gray and steady, cold as the ice upstairs. There is nothing in his face that says he has ever seen me before outside of business, and I know for a fact that man has had his hands inside my waistband.

“He’s my rookie,” I say.

“He’s my player. And there are camera crews at that hospital already.” He doesn’t raise his voice. “You are the story now, Mr. Callahan. If you walk into that lobby, the story walks in with you.”

Mr. Callahan. No one fucking calls me Mr. Callahan. Even the papers call me Brody or just plain Barons 8.

“So I’ll sneak in.”

“Seriously?” He raises his eyebrows and looks me up and down.

Somebody snorts. Actually snorts.

Okay, fine. Maybe I’m not the kind of guy who can sneak in easily.

“Tremblay can go,” Everett says. “One more. Someone nobody photographs.” His eyes go around the stalls and land on Marchetti, and I watch him make the same read I’d make: sober guy, quiet. “You. No jerseys, no gear bags, nothing with a logo. I’ll call ahead and get someone to meet you both outside. Go around the back toward radiology. There’s a back door there.”

“Since when do you know the hospital’s back doors?” I say.

“Since my father had his second stent put in there and didn’t want it in the papers.” The room goes still. Nobody knew about any stent. From the look that crosses Sacco’s face, almost nobody.

“I’m the captain,” I say. “I should be there. I’m not going home just to stare at my phone and wait for updates.”

“Yes. That is exactly what you’re going to do.” He takes one step closer, and I scent the sweet aroma of orange peel. “You have done enough for him tonight.”

The room makes a low sound. He’s out of line and everybody knows it.

“That’s not—” I start.

“He’s right,” Sacco says abruptly.

I startle. What? Sacco is standing up for him now? What fresh hell is this?