Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(57)

Now none of that matters, because I’ve torn my other ACL.

“Is there anyone who’d say I don’t need this surgery?” I croak.

Slowly, Herberts shakes his head. “Not unless we wander up Atlantic Avenue and ask random Bruisers fans we meet in the street.”

“Well, let’s try that.” But the joke falls flat, because somewhere in my thick head I know that Doc is right. Not only that, he’s sugarcoating it, too. Because after I go through surgery and several weeks of rehab, I’ll still have another problem knee.

Unless I’m very lucky. But I’m often very lucky.

“So when can we do this?” I grunt.

“Does tomorrow work for you? Grizzaffi will pull some strings to get you into the midtown clinic in the morning. ACL repair is an outpatient procedure these days. You’ll need someone to sign you out afterward. But you can sleep in your own bed tomorrow night.”

“Great.” As if that really matters. I know I should feel grateful that professional athletes don’t wait in line. But I only feel grim.

Doc gives me a wry smile. “Hang in there, Eric. I know this is all happening fast. But it could be so much worse. You want me to go over the procedure with you?”

“Nope. Thanks.” It won’t change the facts.

“Then sleep well. Don’t eat breakfast, and check your email before you go to bed. The surgical clinic will send you instructions. And call me tomorrow night when you’re home, okay? I need to hear how you’re doing.”

“I will. Thanks.” I get up and head for the locker room, feeling a little stunned. I thought I was going to play Chicago tomorrow. But while my whole team boards the team jet, I’ll be headed to the hospital instead.

In the dressing room, I rip off my practice jersey and throw it at the bench. It slides off and onto the floor. Useless. Just like I am right now.





The best thing about family is that they still have to acknowledge you even when you’re in a shitty mood.

On Thursday evenings, my father and brother can usually be found in the gaming lounge at the Harkness Club in midtown. I have a standing invitation to join them. But usually I’m too busy playing hockey. Which they seem to take personally.

Tonight I’m free, though. Yay me. And it’s just dawning on me that I need to recruit someone to pick me up at the hospital tomorrow.

So I take a cab into Manhattan and limp into the club. It’s the kind of place where the doorman wears white gloves and calls you “sir.”

“Evening sir,” he asks me as he opens the door. “Are you here to join a member?”

“Two of them: Max and Carl Bayer. My name is on file. Hang on…” The Harkness Club is yet another place where I have to dig out my ID just to visit my own family.

That’s totally normal, right?

Once management is satisfied that I’m welcome on the premises, I take the elevator upstairs to the gaming parlor. It’s a low, paneled room in back. The walls are lined with books, and the furniture is cognac-colored leather. It’s not difficult to find Max seated at a backgammon table, rolling the dice with a gleeful look on his smug face.

Get this—my brother thinks backgammon is a real game, but hockey is a waste of time. Chew on that one.

“Hey guys. You’re pretty easy to find,” I say by way of a greeting.

“Eric! So nice to see you.”

The first man to call out a greeting is Max’s opponent, who happens to be Chet Engels, Alex’s father. I haven’t seen him in years, but he looks as spry as ever. I walk (slowly) over and shake his hand.

And now I’m thinking about Alex again, which is something I’ve been trying not to do.

“Hey, look what the cat dragged in!” my own father cries from a sofa nearby. He’s holding a glass of scotch in one hand and a New York Magazine in the other. He tosses the magazine aside. “What’s the problem, kid? You don’t walk in here for no reason.”

So I guess I’m predictable, too. “No problem really,” I lie. “What are you two up to tomorrow?”

“Flying to Palm Springs with Chet.” He points at Alex’s dad. “He’s hosting a golf tournament.”

“That sounds fun.” Let’s face it. Anything is more fun than surgery, followed by rehab.

“And I’m going to D.C. for a meeting,” Max says, his eyes on the board. “Why?”

“Oh, no big deal. I have to have my knee tweaked tomorrow and somebody has to sign me out of the surgical clinic.”

Max looks up from the dice. “Another surgery? How bad?”

“Outpatient,” I say. “A small repair to my ACL.”

“The same one that tore in college?” Dad asks. They’re all staring at me now, worry on their faces.

“Nope!” I say with a plastic smile. “My other knee has decided to join the party.”

Nobody laughs.

“I’ll call off my trip,” Dad says.

“Absolutely!” Mr. Engels agrees. “There will be other tournaments.”

“Not necessary,” I argue immediately. And now I’m sorry I came. “Honestly. I’ll ask a friend. It’s really no big thing.”

Except I can’t ask a friend. They’re all going to Chicago in the morning for a game. Literally everyone I know is a hockey player or works for the team. I’ll think of something. Or—worst case scenario—I can just talk my way out of the hospital. I’ve done it before.