We wake to the sound of pounding at the front door, as well as George’s harsh crying.

“Who is it?” Lawrence asks, opening one lazy eye.

“I don’t know, but they wont stop,” I say.

He gets up, half naked, out of bed. He runs over to the door and looks through the peephole.

“Dammit. Hey, it’s the Goldstein brother. Is it cool if he comes in?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” I say, bouncing George lightly. “I have to take a shower anyway.”

I hear him answer the door, but I don’t run to the shower. I stay and listen.

“They’re not budging,” he says.

“What?” Lawrence asks. “Just come inside, dammit.”

The man steps inside. He picks at his collar, before saying, “The league. It’s going to take a bigger push. Can I turn on your television for a second?”

He sighs. “Do what you need to do.”

The local news is already on from last night. It’s set at a lower volume, but I can still hear it. If I look in my mirror, I can see the reflection of the screen.

“Sources say that Lawrence Jones has been an abusive mess for years,” the reporter says.

I step out from the room to watch with them. Lawrence looks shocked, as a man with a censored face and lowered voice comes onto the screen.

He says, “I was told by the my higher-ups to not let him in the building. Apparently, he was away for a year because of past abuse.”

“What the fuck!” Lawrence yells. “Why are they lying?”

“Lawrence,” I mutter. “What is this?”

“How should I know? This isn’t real. It’s a fabrication,” he says.

“Yes,” Goldstein says. “A character assassination at its finest. But no one else is going to think that. So right now, we’re going to have to think of another strategy if you ever want to play again.”

The TV continues, “We just don’t want anything to do with him anymore.” The fan on the screen looks tired and disheveled. She throws her jersey on the ground and spits on his number. “He betrayed us one time. He left the team and his own pregnant girlfriend. Then, we find out about this. What’s next? He probably murdered someone up there in his cabin!”

“Murdered?” I say out loud. “Okay, no one is going to believe this.”

“You’ be surprised,” Lawrence says, face in his palm. “Let’s just face the facts. My career is over. Time to call it a day.”

“No,” I say. “We have to keep fighting.”

“Why?” Lawrence asks. “The truth is that I’m getting tired of fighting. Maybe I was meant to quit. I could just stay home with you and George. Maybe I don’t need to relive my days as a hockey player. Every player retires at some point.”

“You still have years left,” Goldstein says. “And you’re still paying me. I should remind you that this is one hundred grand a day.”

“It’s what?” Lawrence blinks wildly.

“You know my prices. This is cheaper than what I usually cost,” Goldstein says. “And you’re damn lucky too. The league has requested my services at least ten times now. They want to squash this whole ‘Return of Lawrence Jones’ thing. They tried to pay me off, Lawrence. But guess what? You’re my client and I’m loyal. I’m here to serve you, as long as you keep paying.”

“You know I don’t have much of a choice, right? All my money is tied up in you and my contract. I’m screwed if I do and I’m screwed if I don’t,” Lawrence says.

“So we fight,” I say.

He nods. “We fight.”

“Good. But we should get you somewhere. My guess is that they’re going to be coming here any minute,” he says.

“Who?” I ask.

Outside, I hear our garbage spill onto the sidewalk. “Them,” he says. “The fans. I don’t know what got into you last night, but you never give a press conference on the front of your porch. Now, they have easy access to you at any time.”

“Not again,” Lawrence mutters. “Alright, into the garage. I guess it’s time to go.”

“Where are we going?” I ask him. I set George on the couch and run to grab some things.

“No idea,” Lawrence calls out.

“We could always get you a hotel room,” Goldstein says.

“What, for triple the price? No thanks,” I say, walking out with my baby-bag, George, and a suitcase. “I have someone I can call.”

“Who?” Lawrence asks.

“Marsha Farwell,” I say.

“Better than nothing,” he replies.

Goldstein walks with us to the garage. “Just make sure you get out of here quick. Sports fans can get a little crazy. They won’t touch the house, but they might demand answers,” he says. “Alright, just keep me updated. I have some more work to do. I’ll think of our next move.”

In the car, it feels like the calm before the storm. We both look at each other and sigh. Lawrence says, “I’ve been in more than a dozen fist fights during those games, but I’m being honest here. Outside of the arena, I’ve never touched anyone. I would never hurt anyone like that.”

“I know,” I say. “To be honest, it could have went one or two ways. It was either you had gotten thrown back onto your team, or they went after you with whatever firepower they had. They chose the latter, I guess.”

“Yeah and they’ll probably win too. They’re the NHL. They always win,” he mutters.

“We’ll see,” I say.

I click the garage door button and as soon as we see light, Goldstein runs over to his car. Shouts can be heard outside. Screaming. Goldstein peels out and we follow. Fans chase after us, throwing soda cans and insults. We turn the opposite direction at the stop sign. George has no idea what the fuss is about.

“I haven’t been working for a while,” I admit. “I hope she isn’t mad that I haven’t called her.”

“If all this works out,” he says, “you’ll never have to work again.”

If all this works out, things will be different. We’ll be complete. Right now, things feel heavy and confusing again. Strangely enough, when I see Marsha’s house, it’s like a beacon of light shining in front of us.

“Here we are,” I say, pulling into the giant mansion’s driveway.

“Damn,” Lawrence nods. “That’s what’s up.”

“Welcome to one of the wealthiest people in Seattle’s home. Don’t worry, I brought Advil just in case,” I say.

“Good. So did I,” he says.