The House of Wolves (House of Wolves #1)(24)

Twenty-Seven



OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I knew people wanted me to issue some kind of statement. Beg for forgiveness in the court of public opinion. But I wasn’t playing that game, especially over something that had happened when I was a freshman in college. I certainly wasn’t going to stand in front of the cameras and say that if I offended anybody, I wanted to apologize.

Every time I saw one of those press conferences, I found myself screaming at the television.

You did offend us, you moron. It’s why you’re apologizing!

Everybody except Supreme Court justices had weighed in by now, from the commissioner to my fellow owners to every exploding head in sports television. But my favorite comment had come from one of my own players, Andre DeWitt, who simply said, “We already knew she was badass. We didn’t need no damn pictures to convince us.”

Every day I drove past crowds of reporters when I left the parking lot at the stadium and past reporters when I got home. I smiled and waved. And said nothing. There was a crowd of reporters waiting for me at Hunters Point on Saturday after the kids won again. When it was time for me to leave the school grounds, my players—the ones who had gone to their principal and said they’d all quit the season if he even thought about firing me—formed a circle around me as I walked to my car.

The only difference for me when I took my usual seats for the Wolves game—Joey Rubino was my guest—was the two security guys stationed at the top of section F to keep the media away while we watched Ryan Morrissey win his first game as head coach.

When the game ended, the security guys walked me over to the elevator and stayed with me while I went downstairs to see Ryan in the office that used to belong to Rich Kopka.

“You did good, Coach,” I said.

“It’s a players’ game, even if the former inhabitant of this office frequently forgot that.”

“He forgot it as soon as he stopped being a player,” I said.

“They played hard. All I can ask.”

I walked over and bumped him some fist.

“Look at you. You sound as boring as the other head coaches already.”

I was home later, alone, having a glass of wine to celebrate, when my doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw my ex-husband standing there.

I opened my door just to give myself the opportunity to close it in his face.

He got his foot down just in time.

“Honey, I’m home.”

“My home,” I said. “Go away.”

“No ‘Nice win’?”

“I have nothing to say to you. We have nothing to say to each other. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure that we ever really did.”

“I came here to tell you that I’m on your side, whether you believe me or not,” he said.

I couldn’t help myself.

I laughed.

“I wouldn’t believe you at this point if you told me water was wet.”

He still had his foot preventing me from closing my front door.

“And as for ‘Nice win’? We didn’t win today because of anything special you did. We won because we went back to running the ball.”

“You happen to be right,” he said. “But I didn’t come here to talk football.”

“Then why did you come?”

“To tell you that as soon as your brother can get you out of the way, he’s got a deal in place to sell the team to Gallo,” Ted Skyler said. “Now can I come in?”





Twenty-Eight



JACK WOLF KEPT HIS scull at the Bair Island Aquatic Center, in Redwood City. It was a couple of miles from the spot where he’d rented a small apartment for himself and Megan Callahan—under her name—when they were still together.

That was just another form of exercise, he thought, nothing more, just less rigorous and satisfying than single-sculling.

And he’d kept the apartment.

Win, win.

The Wolves had played a one o’clock game, which he’d used to entertain advertisers in his suite. Once the game was over, he’d driven over here and had been in the water ever since. He was still in his wet suit, on his way out of the boathouse, when he saw Seth Dowd standing by his car.

“Shouldn’t you be off writing me a column about how winning one game doesn’t change what a Dumpster fire the Wolves have become?” Jack said.

“Isn’t that what you told me to write?” Dowd said. “Written, sent, probably already up on the website.”

“Who told you I was here?”

“Trained reporter.”

“At least you’re not resting on your laurels after finding that weasel my sister used to date.”

“I told you, boss,” Dowd said. “We’re just getting started.”

Jack took a long look at him.

“You’ve got something. I know that look.”

“Now who’s acting like a trained reporter?” Dowd said.

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and came out with a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Jack said.

“This,” Dowd said, “is the toxicology report on DeLavarious Harmon.”

“Isn’t it too soon for that to be released?”