Fenway crinkled her nose in confusion. “I thought you wanted to follow Annabel, not Maggie—”
“Where do you think Annabel is going after she pays her bill?” McVie whispered. “Out to see Maggie. And I have to close out, too.”
“I can’t just go out and stand next to Maggie. She’ll know something’s up.”
McVie dug his wallet out of his pocket and held out the valet slip. “Get the car if you need an excuse. Now go.”
Fenway grabbed her purse off the back of the chair and hurried outside. She pushed open the heavy front door and walked onto the carpeted area of the sidewalk, under the awning.
Maggie was standing about thirty feet down the sidewalk, past the valet stand, wobbling slightly. She held her cell phone and tapped on the screen.
Fenway froze. Her mind raced—there had to be some way for her to figure out what was going on. Maggie was drunk—that might get her to loosen her tongue.
The door opened again, and Annabel stormed out of Maxime’s, right past Fenway without giving her a second glance. “Maggie—come on.”
“I’m going back to the Broadmere,” Maggie said, pulling her olive jacket tightly around her. “I’ll see you on the field tomorrow.”
“I gave you a ride here,” Annabel said.
“I don’t need a ride back.”
“You’re drunk.”
Maggie held up the phone. “Not too drunk to get an Uber. Go. Finish dessert. I bet there’s another rookie on the team who’d love to be mentored.”
“If you’d just let me explain—” Annabel said, and then looked at the valet stand. A man in a bright blue coat stood there, doing his best to pretend he wasn’t hearing the conversation.
“Explain what?” Maggie said, mocking Annabel. “Whatcha talking about, superstar?” She spread her arms, then dropped them at her sides. “Whatever you have against him is your problem. Maybe you don’t need him on your side. But I do.” She turned her back on Annabel and walked another few paces down the sidewalk.
Annabel opened her mouth to say something, then appeared to think better of it and clamped her mouth shut. She took two steps backward, then turned and walked back inside as McVie came out.
“Anything?” he asked softly.
“Not yet.”
McVie’s phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He looked at the screen and frowned.
“What is it?”
“It’s Amy.” He glanced at Fenway. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
Fenway nodded. As much as Fenway disliked Amy, she and McVie were still co-parenting Megan. Fenway didn’t like the two of them talking, but she understood—
Fenway grabbed McVie’s forearm as he answered.
“Hi, Amy—hang on just a second.” McVie looked into Fenway’s eyes. “You got an idea?”
Fenway glanced up at McVie and winked. “You know what?” she said loudly enough for Maggie to hear. “Get your own damn car.” She shoved the valet ticket into McVie’s hand. “We are on a date. You talk to your ex on your own time.” She turned on her heel and clomped down the sidewalk toward Maggie.
“You okay?” Maggie said to Fenway in a low voice once she got close enough.
“My boyfriend is a dickhead,” Fenway said, pulling out her phone. “I fly into town and find out he promised his ex-wife he’d help her install cabinets tomorrow.”
Maggie shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“And before you say anything,” Fenway said, holding up a finger, “he told her he’d go over there after he knew I was coming. I hope there’s an Uber available.”
She unlocked her phone and tapped a message to McVie.
Sorry it was the first thing that popped into my head
Trying to share an Uber with Maggie back to their hotel
“You’re not texting your boyfriend, are you?” Maggie said. “Quickest backslide ever.”
“Of course not,” Fenway said. “It’s one of my friends back home.” She sighed melodramatically. “She told me he was an asshole. She warned me not to fly down.” She frowned as the message showed Delivered next to it. She tapped the phone again. “Oh no,” she said. “I don’t have connectivity. Shit.”
“Really?” Maggie said. “Weird. I got five bars.”
“I could use a bar, for sure. A full bar.” Fenway looked toward the door. “Maybe I can ask them to call me a taxi. How much do you think it would cost for a taxi to take me to the Broadmere Hotel?”
“The Broadmere? That’s where I’m staying.” Maggie appraised Fenway, leaning too far to one side and nearly losing her balance. Fenway caught her elbow.
“Whoopsie,” Fenway said, then internally rolled her eyes. Whoopsie?
“I’m frine. Frine. Umm. I’m fine. The cocktails hit me a little hard, is all.” Maggie pointed at Fenway. “If your man is being an asshole, I bet you could use a drink. And not one of these two-hundred-dollar cabernets, either. Like, a real drink. Like a vodka martini.” She enunciated martini slowly and carefully.
“Or scotch?”
Maggie pushed her lightly on the shoulder. “Yes! Like scotch. Listen, come share the Uber with me. It’s stupid not to when we’re both headed to the same place.”
“You don’t mind?”
Maggie shrugged, then lifted her eyes toward the front door of Maxime’s.
Fenway followed her gaze. “You have relationship problems too?”
“What, her?” Maggie laughed. “I’m straight, and she’s married. You don’t recognize her?”
It was almost a denial—but Fenway had interrogated too many people who’d attempted to mislead her. “I guess I didn’t see her very well.”
“She only scored the winning goal in the World Cup last year.” Maggie crinkled her face, and a horrible British accent came out: “Best not forget that.”
“Oh, of course—Annabel Shedd. I thought she looked familiar.” Fenway cocked her head. “You two are on the women’s soccer team in town for training camp, aren’t you?”
Maggie raised her hand. “Guilty as charged.” She dropped her arm, and her face fell. “I know she’s been in the league twelve years longer. I appreciate that, you know?”
“Sure.”
“But this is my career, not hers. You know? She needs to mind her own business.”
“I hear that.”
“Yes.” Maggie enthusiastically smacked Fenway on the shoulder. “You get it.” Her eyes lost focus again. “You know we don’t even have a collective bargaining agreement? Everyone says I’m a big deal, and I’m barely making minimum wage.” She pointed back at the restaurant. “But Annabel, she gets the makeup ads and the big contracts—”
“And the cereal boxes,” Fenway said.
Maggie thumped her upper chest twice, almost at her collarbones. “Nothing is guaranteed for me—nothing.” She let her hand fall to her side and looked at the ground. “I hope the hotel has some good scotch.”
A late-model SUV pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. “Maggie?” the driver asked.
“That’s me,” Maggie said, walking around to the other side of the car.
Maggie’s defenses were down—maybe Fenway could get her to open up during the ride. Fenway got in.
They rode in silence for a moment, then Fenway piped up. “Thanks for the ride, Maggie.”
“You’re welcome.” She turned to Fenway, her eyes glassy. “What’s your name?”
“Joanne.” The fake name Fenway always used. It came easily to her lips.
“Sorry, I talk a lot. You said what? You flew here to spend the weekend with your boyfriend? And he’s spending it with his ex?”
“I don’t mind if he has a decent friendship with her,” Fenway said quickly, thinking of McVie’s real ex-wife. “I mean, he treats her okay even though she cheated on him, which means he’s not a creep. But I took vacation from work. I spent my money to fly here for the weekend. And I’ll be stuck in his apartment all day tomorrow while he helps her with her cabinets.” She sighed. “Serves me right for going out with him before the divorce was final.”
Maggie sank into her seat and was silent.
“So what team are you on again?”
“Oh—the Vegas Neons.”
“Really? Didn’t you win the league championship last year?”
“Lost in the final.”
“And you’re a player?”
“Yes.”
“What position?” Fenway asked, opening her eyes wide.
“Goalkeeper.”
“Oh. Wow. A professional goalie—that’s awesome.”
“Thanks,” Maggie said, but her green eyes darkened.
They pulled up in front of the hotel a few minutes later. Floor-to-ceiling windows were part of the block-long façade of the hotel on Broadway, and the hardwood floors of the lobby were stately and warm. The bar was on the other side of the lobby from reception, probably to minimize noise. Maggie made a beeline for the bar and sat down on an empty stool. The crowd was lively for a Thursday night.
“What can I get you ladies?” the bartender said.
“Scotch,” Maggie said, putting her elbows on the bar.
“The same,” Fenway said, sitting down next to Maggie. She looked around appreciatively at the fancy décor. “I thought I read an article saying everyone in women’s soccer had to share rooms at cheap roadside motels.”
“Yeah,” Maggie said. “We stayed in some real dumps last year. But this year, Coach Flash is really pulling out all the stops.”
“Coach Flash?”
“Oh,” Maggie said, “our head coach. Everyone calls him Coach Flash.”
“A grown man called Flash? Like Flash Gordon?”
Maggie’s eyes glittered. “It’s kinda cute, I guess.” Her smile dropped. “But man, he works the shit out of us.”
“Really?” Fenway leaned forward.
“I mean, the number of times we had two-a-days?” Maggie blew a raspberry. “And he’s always on me for everything.” She looked up at Fenway and plastered a smile onto her face.
“So ask for a trade.”
Maggie shook her head. “He believes in me. He traded Gabby this winter.”
“Who’s Gabby?”
“You never heard of Gabriela Fortuna?”
“No.” A lie—Fenway had read the Neons’ media kit—but Maggie barreled on.
“Last year’s starter. So now it’s on me.”
The bartender set down two glasses with an inch of scotch in each. They both picked up their glasses, and Fenway took a drink. Huh—not too bad for a well whisky. She appraised Maggie, who was staring at the scotch glass in her hand. “Fancy place for two teammates to go out to dinner.”
Maggie blinked. “What—that place?” She giggled. “No. Annabel’s just too hoity-toity to eat at regular places.”
“Ah.” Fenway swirled the scotch in her glass, then tried a more direct question—maybe Maggie’s tipsiness lowered her guard. “So were the two of you on a date?”
Maggie turned to look at Fenway. “A date? I’m straight. Didn’t I say that?” She giggled again. “Plus, she’s almost fifteen years older than me.”
Fenway blinked hard—yes, that was about the same age difference between her and McVie, but that wasn’t exactly a denial from Maggie, either. She set her glass down. “You said Coach Flash was pulling out all the stops.”
“Yeah. It’s been nice. He’s treating the team pretty good so far.”
What did Coach Flash have to do with the choice of the hotel? “Isn’t the owner the one who decides where you stay?”
“Ms. Christchurch might have the checkbook,” Maggie said, “but Coach Flash persway—persway—uh, convinced her to open it.” She flexed her bicep and grinned. “We gotta be well-rested for the season.” She took a swig of her scotch. “I shouldn’t drink this much. But what the hell—I don’t have to be on the field till one.”
“Maybe you can sleep late and hydrate.”
“This is so stupid, you know?” Maggie’s eyes watered, and she blinked quickly. “So stupid.”
“What’s stupid?”
Maggie gestured vaguely to the bar. “I’m not trying to do anything bad.”
Fenway hesitated—maybe this was her chance to get Maggie to open up about her relationship with Annabel. McVie’s words ran through her head: It’s never all about the sex. There’s always something that looks innocent at first. A friend helping you through a tough time.
She chose her words carefully. “People don’t know the whole situation,” Fenway said, looking into Maggie’s face. “Some people might judge you, say you’re doing a bad thing, but they don’t know the whole story, do they?”
Maggie turned to Fenway, and after a brief moment, their eyes locked. “You know what, Jane? You’re all right.”
Fenway’s stomach dropped; Maggie wasn’t going to spill her guts. She sighed and didn’t bother correcting her fake name. “Maybe this should be your last one.”
Maggie stuck her tongue out at Fenway. “I’m here to help a fellow woman get over her boyfriend being a crap bag,” she said. “I’m not cutting out after just one drink.”
Maybe there was hope yet. Fenway clinked glasses with Maggie and took another sip of scotch.
A tall, trim man in a black sportscoat and a light blue Oxford shirt appeared behind them. He wore a salt-and-pepper beard, and his close-cropped hair was gray where he hadn’t yet gone bald. “Good evening, Maggie,” he said. “Celebrating your last night of freedom, I see.” He turned to Fenway. “You’re not with the team.”
“This is my friend Jane,” Maggie said, reaching out to put her hand on the man’s shoulder; she missed, and her hand caught his elbow instead. “Speak of the devil! Jane, this is Coach Flash. You have him to thank for me staying at the same hotel as you.”
Flash nodded at Fenway. “Lovely to meet you,” he said evenly, in a tone suggesting otherwise. Turning to Maggie, he lowered his voice. “First day of practice tomorrow, Maggie. I might want to work everyone hard. I’ve put my reputation on the line for you. You want to be on top of your game.”
Maggie dropped her eyes.
Flash turned his back on Fenway and clasped Maggie’s hand, leaning forward and whispering into Maggie’s ear. Then he took a step to the side as Maggie hastily shoved her hand into the pocket of her olive jacket. “I hope to see you again, Jane,” he said to Fenway. “Maggie, have a wonderful evening.”
Fenway watched him walk away. “He’s kind of strict.”
“He has to be. Four championships.” Maggie wiggled four fingers in front of Fenway’s face. “I could be the starting goalie for the team hoisting the Pickering Trophy this year.”
“Is this his first year coaching the Neons?”
“Second. He drafted me last year.”
“Oh—so when you said he believed in you—”
“He was my coach before,” Maggie said, slurring her words. “I was goalie on the championship team at Shellmont U.” Her eyes lost focus again. “I’m lucky. He was there for two years when he took a break from the pros.”
Fenway took another sip.
“You know how many people started following me on Photoxio after the finals?” Maggie pushed the drink away and stood. “A hundred thousand.”
“That’s a lot.”
Maggie turned toward the elevator, staring for a moment, then glanced back at Fenway. “I know I said I wouldn’t be a party pooper.”
“You’re leaving me? We just got here!”
Maggie leaned forward and spoke in a stage whisper. “Coach Flash. Can’t be out late.”
“I understand. Thanks for sharing the Uber.” Fenway nodded at the bartender. “I’ll pick up the tab. Least I can do.”
“You’re all right, Jane.” Maggie hopped off the barstool, then rocked for a moment.
“Need help?”
“I’m frine.” She giggled. “Really, I’m frine.” She began walking toward the elevator, then spun and pointed to Fenway. “Strength, girl. Don’t let that man put his ex over you.”
“Thanks, Maggie.”
Fenway pulled out her phone. Messages from McVie showed on the screen.
Let me know whats going on
Im outside Broadmere – followd Shedd here
She texted back.
I’m at the Broadmere too – I’ll come out after I pay
She flagged down the bartender. “I’m ready for the check.”
He smiled. “It’s been taken care of.”
Fenway raised her eyebrows, then scanned the bar for Coach Flash, finding him sitting at a table on the other side of the room. He checked his watch and then stood and strode to the elevator, not giving Fenway a second glance.
When Coach Flash got into the elevator, Fenway stood from her stool and walked through the lobby and out the front door. She spied McVie’s beige Toyota Highlander across the street, about half a block down, and hurried over. McVie was looking at his phone, so she rapped on the passenger window with her knuckles. McVie unlocked the car, and Fenway got in.
“Quick thinking,” McVie said.
“Thanks.” Fenway stared out the front window as McVie started the engine. “I thought I might have scared Shedd off after I talked to her in the bathroom.”
“Amy heard you, though.”
Fenway winced. “Oh—sorry. Did you have some explaining to do?”
McVie shrugged and put his seatbelt on, letting the engine idle. “I’m not sure she believed me, but it doesn’t matter.” He leaned forward slightly in his seat. “Did you get anything we can use?”
She shook her head. “I thought I could get Maggie to talk to me about Annabel. She was pretty drunk. But she just complained that Annabel wanted to lecture her.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re not—”
“I know, Craig.”
“But you talked to Maggie? What did she say?”
“First, she said she was straight.”
McVie tilted his head. “Because no one has ever lied about their sexual orientation before.”
“But she never actually said they weren’t involved—she just said she was straight.” Fenway shifted in her seat. “And secondly, the Neons’ head coach gave Maggie his hotel room key while we were talking, and he left for the elevator almost immediately after she did.”
“What?” McVie’s jaw dropped.
“Now that I think about it, I suppose it didn’t necessarily have to be his room key. And it’s entirely possible Maggie didn’t go into his hotel room after she got on the elevator.” She steepled her fingers and stared at her hands. “Of course, it’s possible Maggie is involved with both the coach and Annabel.” Fenway turned to McVie. “What happened with Annabel?”
“She drove into the hotel parking garage. A minute or two later, I saw her through the window, crossing the hotel lobby.”
“Do you think she saw me talking to Maggie at the bar?”
McVie shook his head. “I don’t think so. She had her eyes on the floor the whole time, like she was depressed about something.”
“I think,” Fenway said, “Annabel was trying to convince Maggie that Coach Flash was a bad guy. Maybe she was trying to convince Maggie to break it off with him and have an affair with her instead. Or maybe I’m way off base and she was just looking out for Maggie.”
“I don’t know,” McVie said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “You’ve been right a lot before.”
“I’ve been wrong a lot before, too.”
McVie sighed. “I don’t think Mathilda Montague will like my report, but I better get home and type up the notes.”
Fenway reached over gently and put her hand on McVie’s knee. “Maybe you can write out just a skeleton of the notes and then we can—you know, spend a little more time together tonight.”
McVie smiled, then leaned over the center console. Fenway kissed McVie softly on the lips, then again.
“I hope you don’t have to work early tomorrow.”
“I think I’m old enough to decide if I want to stay up late.” Fenway smiled. “Now your boss, on the other hand, is wholly unreasonable about your working hours.”
“He is a cruel, cruel man,” McVie agreed, settling back into the driver’s seat.
“I say you tell him you’ll finish the report tomorrow morning because your girlfriend is demanding some quality time.”
McVie smiled. “One of these days, Fenway, your conniving ways won’t work on me.”
Fenway grinned—then the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Speaking of conniving ways, what did Amy want?”
McVie straightened up in his seat. “She wants to sell the house.”
“The big mansion?”
“She says it reminds her too much of Rick.”
Oof. Had it only been three months since the death of Amy’s second husband? Fenway nodded. “I guess I can understand that. That’s one reason I sold Mom’s house after she passed—I couldn’t look anywhere without thinking of her.”
“I get it.” The corners of McVie’s mouth turned down. “But I’m not sure what her plan is.”
“What about Megan? Isn’t she going to be a senior in the fall?”
“Yes—assuming she passes all her classes. Which right now is a pretty big if.”
Fenway narrowed her eyes. “I hope Amy stays in the same district. If I were Megan, I’d hate to leave all my friends and go to a new school my senior year.”
“Yeah, well, Megan and her boyfriend just broke up, so that might not be as important.”
“Maybe Megan could move in with you until she finishes high school?”
“She and I haven’t talked about it.” McVie frowned. “Come to think of it, we haven’t talked much in the last month or so.”
“She did cancel the last two weekends with you.” Fenway looked up into McVie’s eyes. “Is everything okay with her?”
“Besides her grades and her boyfriend? The two biggest things in a teenager’s life?”
“Yeah.” Fenway paused. “But you’re supposed to see her this weekend too, right?”
McVie nodded. “I’ll talk to her. Who knows—maybe she’ll even give me more than one-word answers.” He put the car in gear and drove out of the parking lot.
Fenway settled in the passenger seat for the drive back to McVie’s apartment.