Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

23. Sawyer

23

SAWYER

M aggie’s eyes are wide with mirth as she takes in the historic charm of Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood.

Helping her out of the taxi, I find myself soaking in the sight of the familiar street lined with brownstones where Siobhan lives.

We didn’t grow up in Boston, so the city’s charms don’t hold any childhood memories for me. My dad would fly back and forth from our house in Tennessee to his ‘job’ in South Boston. I never questioned it or gave a second thought as to why he was gone more than he was home. It was just normal for us. Eventually, he brought Mom, Siobhan, and me to live in Southie when I started high school. There were simply more opportunities in hockey for me and the best private STEM schools for Siobhan across the river in Cambridge.

As much as I resent my dad now, I am grateful, at least, for getting to play hockey in one of the best sports towns in the country. This is where my agent scouted me. I don’t know if I would be where I am today, playing pro, if it weren’t for our move to Boston.

And then there’s Maggie.

Sometimes I think of the butterfly effect, and how all my past experiences have led me to her. I can’t resent that at all.

My heart is full. Maggie’s childlike excitement hasn’t dimmed since we boarded the plane. I can still picture her face pressed against the window, gasping at every cloud formation and squealing with delight when the flight attendant handed out those tiny bags of pretzels. She’d never flown before today. I found myself grinning like an idiot, caught up in her unflagging joy.

“Welcome to Boston,” I say, gesturing to the row of elegant brownstones lining the street. The crisp autumn air nips at my cheeks, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant sea salt.

Maggie is all wonder as we walk up to Siobhan’s home. The reddish-brown sandstone facade stands tall and proud, its bay windows catching the late afternoon sun. A small set of stone steps leads up to a wrought-iron gate, beyond which lies a heavy wooden door.

I glance over my shoulder, my eyes scanning the street with practiced caution. Two burly figures catch my attention, their presence both reassuring and unsettling. Uncle Whitey’s guys, no doubt.

“What are you looking at?” Maggie asks, following my gaze.

I lean in close, my lips brushing her ear. “See those two meatheads trying to look casual? They’re about as subtle as a hockey puck to the face.”

“Oh! Are they…you know…?”

“Yep. Irish Mob’s finest. Don’t worry, they’re here to protect Siobhan.”

One of the guards stands at the bottom of Siobhan’s steps, arms crossed. His biceps are practically bursting out of his leather jacket that screams ‘I’m definitely not an Irish mobster.’ I bet he eats nails for breakfast.

Across the street, his partner leans against a lamppost, trying way too hard to look casual. He’s sporting a flat cap. He looks like he watched Peaky Blinders once and made some life choices. The cap sits at a jaunty angle, because why not, and from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s missing some teeth.

“Should we, um, say hi?” Maggie asks, as if they’re the HOA patrol and not guys who paint houses.

I chuckle. “Um, I don’t think they’re exactly the chatty type. Unless you want to discuss the finer points of kneecap relocation.”

Maggie’s eyes go wide, and I quickly add, “Kidding! Well, mostly. Let’s just say they’re more the strong, silent, and slightly terrifying type.”

I take Maggie up the steps to Siobhan’s door, my hand hovering at the small of her back. As we reach the top, the door swings open before I can even knock.

“You’re here!” Siobhan squeals, squeezing us tight. “Come in, come in!”

She immediately pulls Maggie into a hug as if I’m not even here. “How was your flight? Oh my gosh, I’m so excited to see you. Eh…I mean, despite the circumstances. She pokes her head outside and waves at her guards before closing the door. A lopsided grin plays on Peaky Blinders guy’s face.

We follow her up the narrow staircase, the wooden steps creaking under our feet. Maggie’s eyes dart around, taking in every detail of the historic brownstone.

“Watch your step,” Siobhan warns, as Maggie nearly trips on a particularly ornery floorboard. “This place is older than dirt and twice as cranky.”

“I’m used to cranky,” Maggie quips. “Have you seen your brother when he’s hungry?”

“Har, har, short stuff,” I say. “You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine before your morning coffee.”

Maggie shoots me a playful glare.

As we reach Siobhan’s floor, I’m hit with the familiar scent of leather-bound books and rich mahogany. A fire crackles softly in the ornate fireplace, casting a warm glow across the room, and with her window cracked, the smell of polished wood mingles with the distant aroma of fresh-baked bread from the bakery down the street. Her place is a riot of colors and textures, with a little bit of Downton Abbey academia. It screams Siobhan—elegant, timeless, and just a little bit quirky.

“Siobhan,” Maggie gasps as we enter the living room. “This is…Wow.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, my sister’s decorating style is best described as ‘I raided a museum gift shop while blindfolded.’”

Siobhan swats my arm playfully. “Excuse you, it’s called ‘Maximalism,’ and it’s very in right now.”

“Is that what they’re calling ‘hoarding’ these days?” I tease, dodging another swat.

“I love it.” Maggie beams. “It’s giving old money chic meets mad scientist’s lair vibes.”

My sister grins, clearly pleased with Maggie’s approval. “Life’s too short for beige, darlings.”

As we move farther into the apartment, I spot her dining table completely covered in paper maps, graphs, a laptop, and some of the gifts Dad had sent to her.

I move over there, eyeing the chaotic spread of papers, maps, and trinkets strewn across its surface. It looks like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream threw up all over Siobhan’s antique mahogany.

“Jeez, Sis. Did you rob a Staples or what?” I pick up a ceramic leprechaun figurine, turning it over to examine the bottom.

Siobhan flies to me. “That's a clue!” She snatches the leprechaun from me. “Everything here is a clue.”

I back up with my hands up. “Okay, okay! Sorry, Sherlock.”

“I think I’m close to cracking Dad’s code,” she says, gingerly placing the figurine in its place. “But there are still some holes in my theories.”

“What kind of code are we talking about here?” Maggie asks. “Like, ‘drink your Ovaltine’?”

Siobhan laughs. “I wish it were that simple. No, I think the clues hidden in these…gifts…They’re not pointing to just one message—it’s multiple, completely unrelated ones. That’s why I couldn’t figure it out before.”

I pick up a small wooden box with intricate carvings. Siobhan gives me the death glare, so I put it down quickly.

Maggie leans in, intrigued. “So, it’s like a puzzle within a puzzle?”

“Exactly!” Siobhan beams. “I just need to figure out where all the pieces go.”

“But instead of pieces, you have…random junk,” I say.

“Your dad sent all this stuff?” Maggie asks. “Prison arts and crafts are next level from license plates these days.”

Siobhan smiles warmly. “I mean, he didn’t actually send them himself. He had help on the outside, of course. And before you ask, Sawyer, Uncle Whitey had nothing to do with it. Otherwise, I could just ask him.”

Maggie is genuinely intrigued. “So, how can we help you solve it?”

Siobhan sighs dramatically. “If you can help me, Maggie, I’ll give you a gold star. These codes are tougher to crack than Sawyer’s…”

“Aaaanyway,” I say, not loving where this conversation is headed. “I’m going to see Dad in the morning. Hopefully, I can get some straight answers out of him for once.”

Siobhan snorts. “Good luck with that. Prison walls have ears. Dad won’t risk it.”

“Maybe you need a fresh perspective,” Maggie suggests to Siobhan. I can practically see the gears turning in her head.

Siobhan sighs, rubbing her temples. “I suppose you’re right. I’m starting to get cross-eyed.”

“That’s how I feel when I’m in drafting mode.” Maggie nods sympathetically. “Sometimes you need another set of eyes to catch your typos.”

“Okay, Maggie,” Siobhan says, warming up to the idea. “Actually, I really appreciate that.”

Maggie grins. “Three heads are better than one.”

Siobhan jerks her chin in my direction. “Well, two and a half heads.”

I feign offense. “Are you girls going to make fun of me the whole time, because I’ll just go watch ESPN.”

“I don’t have a TV, bro,” Siobhan retorts.

I hold up my phone triumphantly. “There’s an app for that.”

Maggie and Siobhan both cross their arms like they choreographed it when I wasn’t looking. It’s cute seeing them teaming up against me—like watching two kittens plotting world domination.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” Siobhan says. “So, we’re in for a long night. I’ll order some pizza for dinner.”

“Actually,” Maggie interjects, “I was hoping to take you out to a nice restaurant tonight. My treat.”

Siobhan shakes her head. “No, you’re my guest. I can’t let you pay. Besides, we’d have to invite one of my new boyfriends along.”

“Maybe it’s best to stay in,” I suggest, not loving this idea. “I’m not exactly confident in your, uh, ‘boyfriends’ out there.”

Siobhan waves off my concern. “It’s safe to go out, but I don’t want you to pay for dinner, Sawyer, because you paid for everything while I was visiting Toronto.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Maggie says proudly. “Sawyer’s not going to pay for it. I am. Book sales are soaring right now. I guess I just needed to give it some time.”

Siobhan looks at me, narrowing her eyes. “Book sales, huh?”

“You were right,” Maggie tells me, beaming. “Things did work out.”

The prison visiting area smells like industrial cleaner and desperation. Fluorescent lights buzz incessantly overhead, casting a sickly glow on the scuffed and worn linoleum floor. It reminds me of a hospital but somehow even more depressing.

Plastic chairs scrape against the ground, the sound grating on my nerves as visitors shift nervously in their seats, and the surprising scent of microwave popcorn fills the air.

There’s a constant hum of hushed conversations, occasionally punctuated by the sharp bark of a guard or the jarring metallic clang of a heavy door.

My stomach churns with anxiety, and I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t belong here. But I do. This is my reality now.

And then I see him.

The man I thought I knew. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly combed, and his eyes gleam with that familiar mix of charm and arrogance. He’s thinner now, his once-imposing frame diminished by prison food and confinement. But there’s still an unmistakable air of authority about him, like he’s holding court rather than serving time.

I feel like I’m looking in a fun house mirror—I see bits of myself reflected back, but everything’s distorted, warped. My chest tightens, a cocktail of anger and grief threatening to choke me. That cocky grin I inherited is plastered across his face as he approaches. For a split second, I’m that little kid again, desperate for his approval. But then reality crashes back, and I remember why we’re here. This isn’t a father-son reunion. This is a reckoning.

I don’t want to be here. I want to turn around, walk out, and pretend this man never existed. But Siobhan’s safety, Maggie’s well-being, even that damn bird—they’re all on the line. I need answers, even if I have to pry them from his lying mouth.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to approach. The smell of cheap soap and stale sweat grows stronger with each step. Dad’s eyes never leave mine, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It’s the same look he’d give me before he’d leave Tennessee for Boston, like he knows something I don’t.

“Hello, son,’ he says as he takes a seat. His voice is a mixture of loose gravel and stale breath. “It’s good to see ya.”

I sit, clenching my fists under the table, willing myself to stay calm. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, Dad. We need to talk.”

Dad leans back in his chair as if he was at a neighborhood barbeque and not in the slammer. “Oh? And what exactly do you wanna talk about?”

“They came to my house, Dad.”

“Who came to ya house? Ya need to be more specific than that.”

I lean in, hissing under my breath. “The Italians. Don’t tell me you don’t know anything about that.”

He shrugs.

“They took my wife’s bird,” I say, seething.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Your wife? I’ve been in the can for all of eight months and you got married?”

I clench my jaw, willing myself to stay calm. “Cut the crap, Dad.”

His smile doesn’t falter, but something flickers in his eyes. “Always so serious. You get that from your mothah, you know.”

“I want answers,” I growl. “I want to know what you stole, where it is, and how to get it back before they decide to go after Siobhan next.”

“Shhh.” He leans forward, whispering in his thick Bostonian accent, “Listen, Sawyah, you gotta trust me on this one. I’ve got everything undah control.”

“Under control?” I scoff. “You’re in prison, and I’ve got goons threatening my family. How is that ‘under control’?”

Dad’s lips curl into that slimy grin I’ve come to hate. “All in good time, my boy. You know I always take care of youse.”

I run a hand through my hair, exasperated. “Can you at least tell me what’s up with those trinkets you’ve been sending Siobhan?”

“What can I say? She likes trinkets. You know that. For you, it’s always been hockey this and hockey that. My Little Clover…She collects bric-a-brac.” He looks around the room at the guards, the surveillance cameras, the other inmates playing checkers with their visitors…and he sniffs inquisitively. “Do I smell popcorn? I would love some popcorn.”

I glance over at the vending machines and the little table set up with a microwave and condiments. It’s a far cry from the movies. I was expecting to sit behind protective glass, talking to Dad on one of those old-fashioned phones. This place has hot pockets and frozen burritos for sale.

“I’ll buy you some popcorn and whatever the hell you want to eat,” I say. “Just tell me what the cyphers mean.”

He chuckles, the sound grating on my nerves. “Ask ya sistah. After all, she’s the intelligent one.”