Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

26. Sawyer

26

SAWYER

T here’s this movie by Robert Rodriguez called The Mariachi , about a musician wearing his all-black mariachi costume, carrying his guitar from bar to bar, just trying to pick up a few gigs.

My demented high school Spanish teacher made us watch it. It’s so bloody, I don’t know what she was thinking, playing it for a classroom full of easily excitable fifteen-year-olds.

Anyway, the poor musician somehow gets mistaken for another guy—also wearing all black and also carrying a guitar case—but that guy had something other than a guitar inside, if you catch my drift. Ultimately, our mariachi gets accidentally involved in a cartel war, and things happen etcetera, etcetera.

(The director eventually made a sequel with Antonio Banderas where the guitarist takes down the bad guys with a little help from his mariachi network of friends, who suddenly appear out of nowhere with guitar cases that are actually machine guns. But I digress. That’s not important right now.)

My point is, I feel just like that mariachi guy, just trying to mind my business, trying to live in peace, playing hockey…but here I am, swept up on the crazy bus with not one, not two, but three mob gangs.

This Italian mob boss…this Mr. Fiorentino…with his crisp suit and perfectly styled hair…he’s not like the rest of them. His calm is more terrifying than Gustavo’s tough-man threats. He studies me with a cool, calculated glare. I think he might be trying to figure me out, trying to determine if I’m telling the truth or if I’m in cahoots with whoever his enemy is.

My dad. His enemy is definitely my dad.

Mr. Fiorentino’s eyes narrow, scanning the crates with the precision of a barcode reader. The warehouse feels like it’s closing in, the air thick with tension and the smell of rusted metal. I can practically taste the danger.

Gustavo, apparently deciding the floor could use some Italian seasoning, spits and growls, “Those Irish bastards double-crossed us!”

Everyone flinches. Well, everyone except Mr. Fiorentino. He doesn't even blink.

Uncle Whitey steps forward, his face red with indignation. “Now wait just a minute?—”

But Mr. Fiorentino silences him with a single look. He bends down, examining one of the crates closely. His perfectly manicured finger traces a symbol etched into the wood.

“These are Russian Bratva trademarks,” he says, voice smooth as silk but sharp as a blade. “It’s not a mistake.”

The enforcers on both sides stand at the ready, hovering their hands near their pockets. I’m starting to feel like the referee in a particularly rowdy hockey game, except instead of sticks, everyone’s packing heat.

I just hope the Italians kept their end of the deal when we agreed to no firearms.

Mr. Fiorentino straightens up slowly, like a cobra uncoiling. In two smooth strides, he’s right in my face. I can smell his expensive cologne and see my terrified reflection in his eyes.

“I consider myself a patient man, Mr. O’Malley,” he says, each word precise and measured. “But I don’t like to play games.”

I resist the urge to back away.

“The only game I play is hockey,” I manage to say.

His lip twitches. Is that amusement or annoyance?

“Do you know what is supposed to be in these crates, Mr. O’Malley?”

I shake my head. “Honestly? I have no clue.”

Uncle Whitey steps forward, his face ten shades of red. “Now, hold on just a minute,” he says, “Brian made this deal without consultin’ me. And there’s no way he could’ve double-crossed ya bozos because he was in the clink when the shipment came in. We only just found out about this warehouse ourselves!”

Gustavo, looking like he’s about to pop a blood vessel, spits on the floor. “He’s lying!”

Uncle Whitey puffs up like an angry rooster. “Listen here, ya meatball-for-brains! Sawyer’s got nothin’ to do with Brian’s operations. They’re not even on speakin’ terms!”

Mr. Fiorentino looks me up and down like I’m a disappointing draft pick. “You really are that clueless. Aren’t you?”

I’m about to defend my honor when Maggie, apparently forgetting we’re in the middle of a mob meeting, snorts loudly. “Believe me, he is soooo clueless. I should know. I’m his wife.”

Great. Thanks for the support, wifey.

Mr. Fiorentino’s gaze slices to Maggie then back to me. His jaw clenches, and I can almost hear the gears in his head turning.

The Italian enforcers shift nervously, while Uncle Whitey’s guys look ready to break into an impromptu Riverdance of violence. Everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for his next move.

Finally, Mr. Fiorentino orders his goons to close the crates back up, then turns to me and Uncle Whitey, staring us down.

Trying to read his expression is like trying to decipher a stone statue—impossible and slightly unnerving. The guy’s got a poker face that would make Vegas weep.

“I want this fixed,” he says, his voice as cold as center ice but with an underlying bite that could strip paint.

And just like that, he’s gliding away like some sort of mafia magician. His strong but silent tattooed friend follows without a word, probably communicating in secret mob eyebrow wags or something.

As they disappear into the shadows (because of course they do—these guys probably practice their dramatic exits), Uncle Whitey lets out a whistle that sounds like a deflating balloon.

“Well, that coulda gone worse,” he says, adjusting his flat cap.

I turn to him, eyebrows raised so high they’re practically touching my hairline. “How exactly could that have gone worse? We’ve got crates full of Russian nesting dolls instead of…whatever the hell was supposed to be in there, and now Mr. Smooth Criminal wants us to ‘fix it’.”

Maggie pipes up, still clutching Otto’s cage like it’s the Stanley Cup. “At least we got Otto back. That's a win, right?”

“Swim with the fishes!” Otto squawks helpfully.

Yeah, great. We’ve got a parrot who repeats mobster lingo and a warehouse full of useless toys. This is fine. Everything’s fine.

The remaining Italians are practically foaming at the mouth, only closing up a few of the crates. Their faces morph from confusion to realization to pure, unadulterated rage, and they abandon their task entirely.

Gustavo looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust. His face is so red, I’m half-expecting steam to start whistling out of his ears.

“You Irish bastards!” he bellows, spittle flying. “You set us up!”

Uncle Whitey, never one to back down from a shouting match, retorts, “Are you outta your gourd? We got played just as much as you pasta-loving dolts!”

The warehouse erupts into chaos. Italians are gesticulating wildly, their hands moving so fast I’m worried they might accidentally pull a pinky muscle.

And me? I’m standing here feeling like I accidentally walked onto the set of The Godfather while looking for the bathroom.

Goons are yelling, Uncle Whitey looks ready to start throwing punches, Maggie’s clutching Otto’s cage, and Siobhan…

I begin to panic. “Where’s Siobhan?”

“Right here.” Siobhan glides through the warehouse doors, looking like she just stepped out for a latte.

“Where the heck did you go?” I hiss.

She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “Oh, just to give that Mafia GQ model a piece of my mind.”

I gape at her in disbelief. “Are you insane? I can’t take you anywhere.”

Meanwhile, the mobsters on both sides are arguing back and forth about which crime gang is at fault.

“The Russians!” Gustavo screams. “They double-crossed us all!”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell ya, ya numpty!” Uncle Whitey retorts.

Yeesh. This is like watching the world’s angriest United Nations meeting.

“Those vodka-swilling bastards!” Gustavo roars, kicking one of the crates. A bunch of nesting dolls spill out, their cheerful painted faces mocking us all. “They’ve made fools of us!”

Maggie slides up next to me. “Did we inadvertently just start a Mafia war?”

I’m about to reply when Gustavo whirls on Uncle Whitey, his eyes blazing. “This is war!” he declares, slamming his fist into his palm.

“Yes, dear,” I say. “I think maybe we have.”

And that’s when the cannoli hits the fan.

I duck as a nesting doll whizzes past my head, its cheerful painted face mocking me as it sails by. The warehouse has devolved into pure mayhem, like someone dropped a lit match into a powder keg of cheap Irish whiskey and marinara sauce. I’m just grateful one of the guys accidentally sealed the crowbars inside the crates.

“Duck!” I yell, pulling Maggie down as a wooden unicorn goes flying overhead. Otto squawks indignantly from his cage, making siren sounds.

Uncle Whitey, proving that stereotypes exist for a reason, has already stripped off his shirt and is challenging all comers with his fists raised and wrinkly moobs jiggling. “Come at me, ya spaghetti-slurpin’ goblins!”

One of the Italian goons takes him up on the offer, launching himself at Uncle Whitey with a war cry that sounds suspiciously like “Mamma mia!”

Meanwhile, Gustavo is in the corner, alternating between throwing punches and dramatically lamenting his life choices.

“Stay down!” I order Maggie and Siobhan, before dodging a wild swing from a guy whose neck is bigger than my thigh.

The air is thick with curses in at least three different languages. I catch glimpses of Uncle Whitey’s flat cap sailing through the air like a frisbee.

I duck another flying nesting doll (seriously, how many of these things are there?) and find myself back-to-back with one of Uncle Whitey’s guys. I’ve never wished so hard for my hockey gear—at least then I’d have some padding.

“Sawyer!” Maggie yells over the din. “We need to get out of here!”

She’s right, of course. But as I look around, I realize we’re caught in the middle of a mob mosh pit. Fists are flying, nesting dolls are being weaponized, and I’m pretty sure I just saw someone try to clock another guy with a dry salami.

Of all the odd things to bring in your pocket. Maybe he figured he could have a snack if he didn’t use it to clobber someone?

”Okay, new game plan,” I shout. “We’re going to make a run for it. You take Otto, I’ll clear a path.”

I grab Maggie’s hand and start bulldozing through the chaos like I’m on a power play. “Stay close!” I yell over my shoulder to Siobhan.

Otto’s squawking his head off, alternating between “Tickle tickle” and “Who’s your daddy?”

We’re dodging flying nesting dolls and flailing limbs when suddenly, the warehouse doors burst open with a dramatic bang. For a split second, I think it’s the cops, here to arrest us all and end my hockey career before I can even make it to the playoffs.

But no. It’s much, much weirder.

Three massive figures in full Toronto Titans gear come barreling in, helmets on, and hockey sticks raised.

My jaw drops. There stands Owen, flanked by Hendrix and Griffin. They look like they’ve just stepped off the ice and into the penalty box.

“Hey! Who started the game without us?” Hendrix yells.

“What the—” I start, but Owen cuts me off.

“No time to explain, buddy. Let’s play some offense!”

And just like that, my teammates launch into the fray.

Owen, our fearless captain, takes a running start and bodychecks an Italian enforcer so hard the guy probably sees maple leaves. Hendrix, grinning like a maniac, swings his stick in a perfect slap shot, sending a nesting doll flying across the room to bonk an Irish goon on the head, while Griffin, our gentle giant of a goalie, uses his reflexes to catch and deflect flying objects.

“Did you call for backup?” Siobhan asks, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“I didn’t even know I had backup!” I reply, watching as Hendrix hip-checks a mobster into a pile of packing peanuts. This is crazy. How did they even find me? It’s just like the ending of The Mariachi sequel, except instead of a posse of musicians, I’ve got hockey players.

The warehouse has turned into the weirdest hockey game I’ve ever seen. Mobsters are slipping on scattered nesting dolls, my teammates are lining up right next to the Irish enforcers, checking goons left and right, and Otto is providing colorful commentary from his cage.

“Penalty box! Two minutes for high-sticking!” Hendrix yells before slamming into an Italian mobster.

It’s utter madness, and I think for a second about how strange it is to get in these situations with Maggie so often.

Some goon gets cross-checked into my back, and I momentarily get sidetracked into pushing him off me. When I turn back to Maggie, one of the Italians is making a beeline toward her. His meaty hands reach for Otto’s cage, probably because he’s looking for something to throw besides dolls.

Maggie clutches that cage like it’s a life preserver.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Maggie snarls, her knuckles white around the cage bars.

“Let go, lady!” the mobster grunts, yanking on the cage.

“Never!” Maggie shouts back, her feet sliding on the concrete as she pulls with all her might.

It’s like watching the world’s most bizarre game of tug-of-war.

But before I can reach them, Siobhan swoops in like a Valkyrie. With a war cry that would make a Celtic warrior proud, she whips off her shoe and starts swatting the mobster like he’s an overgrown mosquito.

“Take. That. You. Sweaty. Creep!” she shouts, punctuating each word with a smack.

The goon, clearly not expecting to be assaulted by footwear, loosens his grip on the cage.

My protective instincts kick into overdrive.

“Stay away from my wife!” I bellow as my fist connects with his face in a satisfying crunch.

He staggers, releasing the cage entirely. But Maggie, in full-on tug-of-war mode, suddenly finds herself with no resistance. She flies backward, still with a death grip on Otto’s cage, losing her balance.

“Maggie!” I yell, reaching for her just as a doll comes flying out of nowhere and whomps me on the forehead. I can already feel the blood dripping down my face when I see Maggie tripping over a pile of broken crates.

She goes down.

Maggie blinks rapidly, her eyes unfocused. She’s sprawled on her back, one leg hooked over a broken crate, the other bent at an awkward angle. Her hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions like she just stuck her finger in an electrical socket.

I finally reach her, kneeling down beside her. “Maggie, are you okay?”

She looks up at me, her expression dazed and confused. A slow, loopy grin spreads across her face.

“Heyyy, Sawyer,” she slurs, “when did you get a twin?”

Oh boy. She's definitely not okay.

“Maggie, focus. How many fingers am I holding up?” I ask, waving three fingers in front of her face.

She squints at my hand then giggles. “All of them?”

Great. Just great.

Her eyes suddenly widen comically, and she gasps. “Sawyer! You’re bleeding!”

I’d forgotten about the cut on my forehead.

“Sawyer?” she says, her voice suddenly small.

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gonna…” Her eyes roll back, and she goes limp.

“Maggie? Maggie!” I pat her cheek gently, but she’s out cold.