Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(84)

“This says you can’t.” I reach over and take the folder from him, flipping it open to make sure he signed the affidavit, too. “Hey, it’s supposed to be notarized.”

“I’m a notary,” Max says. “I got it.”

“A rubber stamp doesn’t mean shit anyway,” Tatum snarls. “Just like signing that thing doesn’t mean I’ll forget my kid exists. I will always be that baby’s father. You can’t change that with money or visits from the goon squad.”

I wish he weren’t right. “Stay away from Alex.”

“You call her lawyer if there’s something you want to say,” Max adds.

He deflates. “Message received. You got what you wanted. So now you can get the hell out of my apartment.”

“Don’t call,” I say quietly. “If you do, I’m the one who’s going to answer.”

Tatum just gives me the kind of glare that would be fatal if laser eyes were a real thing.

Max takes the folder out of my hands. “All right. Thank you for this. Alex appreciates your cooperation. Just out of curiosity, where were you last night?”

“At a restaurant in the east twenties,” he says. “NoMad on twenty-eighth.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Ten?” he shrugs. “Then I came home.”

“Okay,” Max says quietly. “I hope for your sake that’s true.”

And that’s the last thing anybody says until Max and I show ourselves out.

We leave by the back door of the building, walking toward Max’s sports car. “Good job in there,” Max says. “Do you believe him about last night?”

“Yup,” I say tightly. “So who the fuck was on that motorcycle? And who broke in?”

Max just shakes his head.





30





Eric





“Great work today,” Chip says, as always. He’s setting up the stationary bike for our last exercise. “The left knee has good extension. Good flexion. I told you this was going well.”

“Yeah you did.” Although I’m still weeks away from competing. But it’s late November, and—God willing—my team will still be skating into June.

And then there’s my other knee. “Hey, Chip? Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“What do you know about injections for arthritis?” If Gino’s right about pain relief, it’s something I might want to try.

“Injections?” He adjusts the stationary bike we’re using next. “Who’s trying to sell you on that?”

“Nobody,” I say quickly. “But I heard they can reduce pain and swelling.”

“They can,” he says, and my heart actually leaps. “But corticosteroids can mimic some banned substances. So you might need a waiver for that treatment.”

That sound you hear is my hopes being dashed again. Nobody wants to mess around with the banned substances list.

“But—more importantly—pain is a signal that something is wrong. An injection could mask your pain while you actually break down more cartilage. It would be short sighted to shoot up your knee with a harmful substance just to get a few more months of playing time.”

“Gotcha,” I say glumly.

Chip puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Nobody wants a knee replacement before age forty. There aren’t any shortcuts, man. I’m sorry.”

“Right.” But God I wish there were.

“Feet on the pedals, Eric. Let’s finish up. Then you can go home.”





Home sounds pretty good. My dad’s place is great, but I miss my own bed. So I head back to my own apartment after the session.

During the short walk home, I check my messages. There’s a bunch from my dad. Hey buddy guess what? I…

I scroll right past, because—for the first time ever—a message from Alex awaits me.

HE SIGNED!!!! He signed the papers! I have them right here! I’m so happy with your brother I could hug him.

Oh man. I wish I could have seen her face when Max handed over that folder. I told my brother I didn’t want any credit. Alex doesn’t need to know what I did to get that fucker’s signature. I don’t want to describe how close I came to smashing Tatum’s face in.

I’m so happy for her, though. At least something is going right for her. Don’t hug Max! You’re supposed to save those for me.

“Whatcha smiling about?”

I look up to find my teammate Dave Beringer holding the elevator for me. “Oh, nothing.” Even if I felt like explaining what’s happening between Alex and me, I’m not sure I really know. “I saw your sister for lunch the other day. Is Bess staying with you?”

“She was, until one of her players got a suspension, and she had to fly back to Detroit.”

“Fun times.”

“Yeah.” He presses the elevator button. “I wouldn’t want her job. Trying to keep players out of trouble.”

“Right?”

The conversation stalls for a moment because Beringer and I aren’t very close, in spite of having names that some people confuse with each other’s. And even though we’re nearly the same age. But Dave is a d-man and I’m a forward. So we run in different circles.