stay positive, hoping that it might keep their mother from losing herself at the bottom of a bottle of vodka.
Life had never been easy for the three Quinn boys, but Thom knew it was about to get worse. It had begun to unravel three or four years ago, when their da had lost his job. Denny Quinn had started drinking and gambling away the small paycheck their mother brought in. Their parents started fighting more, and a once happy family began to fall apart.
But it hadn’t been too terrible until two weeks ago. Until their father had gone out for a pack of cigarettes and hadn’t come back. A policeman had come to the door, and Thom had overheard what the man had said to his ma—Denny had been killed during a botched armed robbery, trying to make a getaway after grabbing a wad of cash from an open register.
“At least he won’t have to worry about money for food,” Thom muttered. Like they did.
“What?” Tris asked.
“Nothing,” Thom replied. “It’s almost dinnertime. I’m going to go out and get us something for supper.”
His gaze met Tristan’s and there was a silent agreement between them. Whatever Thom had to do to feed the family was all right. With his mother rarely getting out of bed these last two weeks, it had fallen to him to find food for them. Sometimes he could shoplift enough to feed the four of them. Or he’d find some discarded food in the Dumpster behind a restaurant or grocery store. Occasionally he’d panhandle, but any cash he acquired was saved for other necessities.
“What if Da doesn’t come back?” Jamie asked. Thom hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell his youngest brother the truth.
Instead, he patted his little brother on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Me and Tris will always be around. We’ll take good care of you and Mum. I promise.”
Thom grabbed his jacket and headed to the door of their apartment. The world outside was dangerous, but he’d grown up on the streets. He knew how to get along, how to avoid trouble. And he wasn’t afraid to stick up for himself.
He pulled his hood over his head and kept to the shadows, alert for any trouble coming his way. He’d learned the Italian restaurant down the block was a usually a good stop, especially after nine, when the kitchen closed. Leftover pizza, garlic bread, even cold pasta provided a filling meal.
The alley was silent when he arrived. He grabbed an old crate and boosted himself into the Dumpster, searching for a container for his takeout meal. He’d just found a whole pepperoni pizza, only slightly burnt, when the sound of a car engine caught his attention.
He risked a glance out of the bin, then cursed softly. “Cops,” he murmured.
A moment later, someone stepped out the back door of the restaurant. “He’s in there now,” the man shouted.
“Just step back, sir,” the officer called as he stepped out of the police car.
Thom tucked the pizza box under his arm and, in one quick move, leaped out of the Dumpster. He hit the ground running. The two men rushed at him, but by the time they crashed into each other, he was halfway down the alley.
He turned to face them, then bent down and grabbed a brick, heaving it at the police car. When it crashed through the rear window, Thom shouted, “Fuck you!” With that, he dashed onto the street, increasing his speed until his lungs burned and he could barely catch his breath.
He could circle back to the grocery store and see if he could snatch a quart of milk or a couple of cans of soda, or he could go home where he’d be safe. Jamie needed the milk, and maybe if his ma had soda, she wouldn’t drink the vodka. Thom decided to stash the pizza behind the newspaper box outside a nearby convenience store, then reached for the change in his pocket. It was always best to buy something in the store if he was planning to steal something.
He smiled at the clerk as he walked inside, but the teen barely noticed him, his attention fixed on a small television. Maybe he wouldn’t have to buy anything after all. Thom kept his eyes on the other shoppers. He managed to stash the milk, a box of lemonade mix and a block of cheese before he decided to leave.
He walked to the counter and when the clerk turned to him, he smiled again. “My mom wants me to get organic peanut butter. I can’t find it.”
“We don’t have it,” the kid said. “Try the grocery store on the next block.”
“Thanks,” Thom said. He strolled casually to the door, then stepped outside. An instant later, someone grabbed his arm. Thom spun around, throwing his fist out. But he wasn’t quick enough. The cop snapped his handcuffs on Thom’s wrist.
“Fuck me?” the cop said with a laugh. “Not tonight, buddy. Not tonight.”
“JUST LET ME do all the talking. If they ask you a direct question, keep your answer short and to the point. Don’t try to make excuses. No sarcasm. No attempts at humor. Just be humble and repentant.”
Thom Quinn shifted in the front seat of his agent’s Porsche, trying to find a comfortable position for his six-foot-three-inch frame. “What do you think they’re going to do?”
“Considering your past indiscretions,” Jack Warren said, “I think they’re going to come down hard. At least a suspension. Maybe a trade.”
Thom had played professional hockey for Minneapolis his entire career. A first-round draft pick, he’d spent only one season on their Iowa farm team before being called up late in the year for the playoffs and hadn’t looked back. By most standards, he was a star, the kind of player who filled a crucial role in the success of a team. A defensive power who could play both ends of the ice, scoring goals for the Blizzard and blocking shots from the opposing teams.
His on-ice performance had never been in question. He’d exceeded what had been asked of him. But off the ice...he couldn’t seem to meet the league standard.
And his latest escapade, three nights before, had been meticulously documented. There were photos of him playing blackjack with two Las Vegas strippers at his side, one of him in a limo with plenty of booze and naked flesh and a cadre of “friends.” One of those friends had betrayed him, selling the photos to a tabloid television show. The pictures had then quickly spread throughout the media.
“Can you make this right?” Thom murmured.
“You don’t make it easy,” Jack said, shaking his head. “You’re twenty-seven years old. It’s time to grow up, Tommy.”
What the hell did that mean? He was on top of his game. He had plenty of cash to spend. Why couldn’t he cut loose and enjoy himself now and then? He wasn’t breaking any laws. There had been a few scuffles with angry fans and aggressive photographers, a few bitter ex-girlfriends with stories to tell, but he’d always managed to smooth out any problems he’d had with a contrite apology and a generous offer of cash.
Why did he feel the need to push the boundaries of proper behavior? The marketing machine that ran the Minnesota Blizzard had always sold Thom Quinn as a bad boy, a guy who grew up on the streets and came by his tough exterior the hard way. His nickname was “The Beast.” They’d created this persona for him, yet they’d never given him a rulebook. How far was too far? Apparently what he’d just done.
But
