Page 93 of Unmanageable

We grab a booth in the far back corner, underneath a broken neon sign for a defunct local brewery.

“Two plates of the garlic parm wings, a basket of fries, and whatever coffee you have, please,” Cash tells the waitress, an older woman with a pencil tucked into her gray bun.

“You got it, honey,” she says, disappearing toward the kitchen.

I lean my elbows on the sticky wooden table, looking across at him.

“So,” I say. “The next coach on the itinerary is in Memphis. Are we expecting more strobe lights and tunics, or are we going back to standard ice drills?”

“Standard ice, I think,” Cash says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But honestly, after today, I feel like I could track a puck through a brick wall. That guru guy is weird, but his mechanics are real.”

“I’ll give him credit for the hand-eye coordination,” I say, reaching across the table without thinking and resting my fingers over his knuckles. “But if he sends me an invoice for ‘spiritual alignment,’ I’m deducting it from your travel budget.”

Cash looks at our joined hands on the table, a slow, soft smile breaking through the fatigue on his face. “You’re really tough, you know that? Most people would’ve run out of that place in two minutes.”

“I have to be, O’Connell. Someone has to keep you from accidentally joining a cult.”

The waitress returns, dropping the plates of wings and two thick glasses of dark ale between us.

We’re halfway through the first plate of wings when the front door of the bar swings open, letting in a blast of cold air and a group of four guys in canvas work jackets.

They’re loud, their voices carrying over the music, already smelling faintly of whatever pre-game drinks they had in the parking lot. They crowd around the horseshoe-shaped counter, ordering a round of whiskey shots.

I don’t pay attention to them until I hear the name O’Connell.

It’s spoken with a sharp, ugly nasal drawl from the tallest guy in the group—a massive, thick-necked guy with a dirty-blonde beard and a faded local team hat pulled low over his eyes. He’s leaning his elbow on the bar, his back to the counter, his eyes scanning the back booths until they land squarely on our corner.

“I’m telling you, it’s him,” the blonde guy says, his voice intentionally loud enough to carry over the jukebox.

He points his beer bottle directly toward our table. “Look at the size of him. That’s O’Connell. The guy who let six goals in against Chicago before he fake-injured his shoulder because he couldn’t handle the heat.”

Cash doesn’t move. He doesn’t even stop chewing. He just keeps his eyes on his plate, his face expressionless, but I can see the muscles in his forearm go rock-hard where he’s holding his fork.

“Cash,” I whisper, my voice urgent. “Ignore it. They’re just looking for a reaction.”

“I am ignoring it,” Cash says, his voice flat, completely devoid of any emotion. He takes a sip of his beer, his eyes fixed on the neon sign across the room.

The guys at the bar see that he’s not looking, and the lack of response seems to fuel them. The blonde guy takes a long step away from the counter, his friends laughing behind him as he begins to drift toward our section of the booth, his sneakers dragging through the sawdust.

“Hey!” the guy calls out. “You lost? Boston’s the other way, man. My kid’s bantam team has a better glove hand than you do. You’re a total joke, O’Connell.”

“Cash…”

But the blonde guy doesn’t stop. He steps right into the clearance between our table and the next, blocking the path. He looks down at me, his eyes bloodshot, a nasty, alcohol-fueled grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, look at this,” the guy says, leaning over our table. “He brought his little red-headed puck-bunny along to keep him warm. What’s the matter, honey? The big league goalie can’t handle the pressure without some jersey-chaser clearing his crease for him? How much is he paying you to—”

“Hey, asshole—” I start, but I don’t even get the rest of the words out.

Cash moves so fast it doesn’t even look real. His left hand punches forward, bunching the front of the guy’s canvas jacket in his fist, and before the blonde guy can even blink, Cash drives his right fist straight into the center of his face.

Blood instantly spurts into his beard, and he stumbles backward, his heels catching on a chair before he crashes hard onto the sawdust floor, knocking empty beer bottles in every direction. He groans, clutching his face as the blood pools through his fingers.

My breath catches in my throat. My heart is hammering against my ribs, adrenaline spiking so hard it makes my fingers tingle.

Cash is always so lighthearted. He’s the guy who sings cheesy duets, laughs off terrible nicknames, and plays along with whatever ridiculous thing is happening around him.

Seeing him like this—completely quiet, totally lethal, and absolutely consumed by a dark, protective rage—does something frantic to my chest.