Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) Read Free

moved a little closer to me. “You got a problem with that?”
    “I do, very much.”
    “So how about you and me discuss this further after the game? Privately?”
    Flares started lighting up my veins. “Are you challenging me to a fight?”
    “Yep. Unless, of course, you’re chicken. Are you chicken?”
    “I’m not chicken,” I said.
    Sometimes I’m good with the snappy comebacks. Try to keep up.
    “I got a game to coach. But then you and me, we settle this. You got me?”
    “Got you,” I said.
    Again with the snappy. I’m on a roll.
    Coach Bobby put his finger in my face. I debated biting it off—that always gets a man’s attention. “You’re a dead man, Bolitar. You hear me? A dead man.”
    “A deaf man?” I said.
    “A dead man.”
    “Oh, good, because if I were a deaf man, I wouldn’t be able to hear you. Come to think of it, if I were a dead man, I wouldn’t be able to either.”
    The horn sounded. Assistant Coach Pat said, “Come on, Bobby.”
    “Dead man,” he said one more time.
    I cupped my hand to my ear, hard-of-hearing style, and shouted, “What?” but he had already spun away.
    I watched him. He had that confident, slow swagger, shoulders back, arms swaying a tad too much. I was going to yell out something stupid when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned. It was Ali, Jack’s mother.
    “What was that all about?” Ali asked.
    Ali had these big green eyes and this cute, wide-open face I found fairly irresistible. I wanted to pick her up and smother her with kisses, but some might deem this the wrong venue.
    “Nothing,” I said.
    “How did the first half go?”
    “We’re down by two, I think.”
    “Did Jack score?”
    “I don’t think so, no.”
    Ali studied my face for a moment and saw something she didn’t like. I turned away and headed back up the stands. I sat. Ali sat next to me. Two minutes into the game, Ali said, “So what’s the matter?”
    “Nothing.”
    I shifted in the uncomfortable bleacher.
    “Liar,” Ali said.
    “Just getting into the game.”
    “Liar.”
    I glanced over at her, at the lovely, open face, at the freckles that shouldn’t be there at this age but made her damn adorable, and saw something too. “You look a little distracted yourself.”
    Not just today, I thought, but for the past few weeks things had not been great between us. Ali had been distant and troubled and wouldn’t talk about it. I had been pretty busy with work myself so I hadn’t pushed it.
    Ali kept her eyes on the court. “Did Jack play well?”
    “Fine,” I said. Then I added, “What time is your flight tomorrow?”
    “Three.”
    “I’ll drive you to the airport.”
    Ali’s daughter, Erin, was matriculating at Arizona State. Ali, Erin, and Jack were flying out for the week to get the freshman settled.
    “That’s okay. I already hired a car.”
    “I’d be happy to drive.”
    “It’ll be fine.”
    Her voice cut off any further discussions on that issue. I tried to settle back and watch the game. My pulse still raced. A few minutes later, Ali asked, “Why do you keep staring at the other coach?”
    “Which coach?”
    “The one with the bad cable-show dye job and Robin Hood facial hair.”
    “Looking for grooming tips,” I said.
    She almost smiled.
    “Did Jack play a lot in the first half?”
    “Usual amount,” I said.
    The game ended, Kasselton winning by three. The crowd erupted. Jack’s coach, a good guy by all counts, had chosen not to play him at all in the second half. Ali was a tad perturbed by this—the coach was usually good about giving kids equal time—but she decided to let it go.
    The teams disappeared into corners for the postgame spiel. Ali and I waited outside the gym door, in the school corridor. It didn’t take long. Coach Bobby started toward me, the same swagger, though now his hands had tightened into fists. He had three other guys with him, including Assistant Coach Pat, all big and overweight and not nearly as tough as they thought