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Then he ran back to the huddle.
Sixty-three took a long time getting up.
Hud hit him two more times before he went long for a pass and scored again.
Coach Max came to stand beside him as Hud perched his helmet on the back of his head and sprayed water on his face. “So, I think that’ll do, pig.”
He glanced at Coach Max.
“He’s sorry. I’m sure he’s very sorry,” Max said and gestured to sixty-three, now yanking off his helmet and throwing it to the ground. He walked over to his coach, yelling, pointing toward the Vikings sideline.
Hud watched. “Not sorry enough.” He wasn’t telling Coach Max, but he and Vogel also had a post-game date—one the officials wouldn’t be able to call.
Although, interesting that they hadn’t called any of his hard tackles.
“Any news on…the official?”
“Nope.”
Hudson ground his teeth and walked off the field as soon as the game ended. No high fives and handshakes for him.
He showered fast—a cold shower, just to calm himself down—and was dressed, his hair wet, his body still buzzing, before coach finished his post-game preaching-slash-celebration.
No celebrating until he knew that Iris was okay.
Toby caught his arm as he headed out the door, his duffel over his shoulder. “Plane leaves in a couple hours.”
“Don’t wait for me.”
Toby gave him a look. “Please don’t end up in jail.”
Hudson narrowed his eyes. Took a breath. “See you at practice Monday.” He shrugged out of Toby’s grip and headed out the door.
Then he stopped by the officials’ locker room and knocked on the door, didn’t wait, and barged in.
Most of them were mid dressing. He stood at the entrance and directed his question toward the man he’d seen at the dinner with Iris. Zach Warton. “Where is she?”
A beat.
Then the head ref, Yannick, spoke up. “Martin Luther Hospital. We’re going there now—you need a ride.”
He checked his watch. “How long?”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll call an Uber.” He walked out, pulling out his phone. Two minutes away. He ordered the Uber and met the driver at the curb. “Drive fast. I’ll tip you extra.”
Inside the car, he dialed Ziggy. She didn’t answer. He hung up and called again.
“Hudson?”
“Is there any reason a player would pick up the contract on Iris?” He’d been circling that question through his head for an hour. But it was crazy, wasn’t it?
Still, he’d seen the guy, at least twice, go after Iris during the game, despite his hope of staying focused.
Maybe, in a way, it’d made Hud play with more anger, more urgency. More focus. Because in his head was the driving thought that the sooner they wrapped up the game, the sooner he could track her down.
The Uber driver was a man, mid-thirties, driving an economical Fiat, and he motored in and out of traffic like it might be a game ofGrand Theft Auto.
