Page 8 of Omega’s Forward

He blinks. He stares at me, then he goes.

He takes the first two steps backward, palms out like I’ve got a gun in my hand and I’m threatening to shoot him. Then the door clicks shut behind him.

The scent stays.

3. Brody

I don’t remember leaving the office.

I remember the door, and then I’m in the parking garage with my truck keys in my hand and no memory of the stairs in between.

I drive. No destination, no plan. Over the river and back. Past the practice rink. An hour of it, maybe more, radio off, both hands on the wheel. The heater’s on too high and I don’t touch it.

My knuckles are still split from the Dorn fight, and every time I flex my hands on the wheel the scabs pull.

His scent came with me. It’s in my nose, in the cab of the truck, on my collar where it has no business being, because he never came within six feet of me. I roll the window down. It doesn’t help. It’s not in the truck. It’s in me.

I pull into a gas station north of the river and don’t buy gas. I sit in the lot with the engine ticking and watch a man fill a minivan, a regular guy having a regular Tuesday, and I want to trade lives with him so badly my teeth ache.

A kid in a Barons hoodie comes out of the station with a slush drink, clocks the truck, clocks me, and his face lights up.

I sign his cup and take a selfie with him, the boy beaming into the camera like he won the lottery.

Here’s what I keep coming back to: Gordie had a son.

I found out about him, same as the rest of the team, after Gordie died and the question of who now owned the franchise came up.

All Sacco had to say about the guy was to wrinkle his nose as if the mere mention of the guy brought a bad smell to the room. He wouldn’t be drawn on anything else after that.

I figured they’d fought, the way father and son sometimes do. I’d googled him, thinking I’d need to know the new boss, and not found much. Everett Rourke had lived in Europe for years, working in banking or something equally dull.

But that wasn’t the issue. I’d known Gordie Rourke for years. I’ve lost track of the dinners I’ve had at his table, barbecues at his house. He knew my mother’s name and my sister’s kids’ names and remembers the names of dates I’ve had that I don’t even remember.

And in fifteen years he never once said the word son. No family photos. I was vaguely aware that he’d been married before and got divorced, but that had been years ago. The subject simply didn’t come up. I got the impression Gordie didn’t think about her much.

Everett Rourke hadn’t been at the funeral. I knew that much. Even if I’d not noticed him, I’d have noticed that scent.

JP stood beside me at that service with his hat crushed in both hands and cried without any embarrassment at all.

I kept my eyes on the casket and spent half the time thinking that I didn’t believe that Gordie was actually in there. That felt nuts. The whole thing was surreal.

The house is dark when I pull in. My phone buzzes just as I pull through the security gate. I park then pick it up.

JP: how’d it go with the new boss? am I traded? do I get your parking spot?

Then, a beat later: you good?

I type fine. I delete it. I type he’s not what I expected. I delete that too, then put my phone in my pocket without replying.

That’s the first time I lie to JP Tremblay, by saying nothing at all.

My house is a big place up the hill, trees on three sides, a garage under the house, and a security system JP talked me into after a fan found my old address and left love letters in the kitchen.

I know what Everett Rourke is to me. He’s my mate. He’s my scent match at minimum. Maybe even a prime match.

The last few weeks have been nuts. First Gordie dies and then I find out his son is my true mate.

My skates are by the door where I dropped them after morning skate, back when today was still a normal day. I stand in my own kitchen with the lights off for a minute, watching the trees move in the wind.