Page 3 of Dirty Fighter

Hanging in there. You?

Same.

I miss him.

We all do.

It’s about as much emotion as I’ve ever seen out of the grizzled old guy, and in a blink, it’s gone. He claps my back and clears his throat, waving impatiently for us to hurry up.

Mushy fucker.

I help my teammates load our gear onto the Mae Belle, catching some serious side-eye from Bruce when he sees how much we’ve got.

I know.

But then we’re on our way, pushing off from the pier, leaving the harbor, and rounding the bend.

Far across the bay sits a string of islands ranging in size from little more than a sandbar with a couple scraggly trees to one that’s nearly two miles long with a steep grade, dense woods, and a rocky drop-off on one side.

It’s so familiar, and yet so different this time.

The guys whistle and hoot, ready to blow off some post-season steam.

Miraculously, we make it without anyone falling in. I grab the bow line and hop onto the dock to tie us off while we unload. And the questions that haven’t stopped since we left Chicago just keep coming.

“This one of those lakes with the sketch algae blooms?” Huska asks, leaning down to examine the water.

“How deep is it?” Wexler wants to know. “Can we dive?”

“So it’s just us? There isn’t like… a sister island we can canoe over to visit the girls?” Lattner asks like it’s a damn summer camp.

“Why can’t I get a signal?”

“Does DoorDash work on an island?”

Bruce cuts me a look so pissy, it breaks me out of my moody bullshit and has me coughing into my hand to cover my laugh.

“Sure you want me to leave ya?” he asks.

Not really.

But I toss the line back to him anyway. “Thanks, Bruce. Good seeing you.”

“You too, kid.” He nods to where the guys are throwing their duffels over their shoulders and hoisting a cooler apiece. “Need anything, call or text. Eventually it’ll get through. Signal’s still pretty spotty, but they tell us we’re gettin’ an upgrade this year.”

“Will do.”

He grins. “Left you a surprise up there.”

I lift a brow, my heart legit skipping a beat. “Sally’s oatmeal cookies?”

With Bruce, it could be anything from a stuffed squirrel mounted above the front door to home cooking from his wife. Which would be amazing.

It has to be food. He wouldn’t pull the same squirrel stunt twice.

He’s got his eyes on the water as he lets out a rusty laugh. “See for yourself.”

I turn around, ready to threaten my teammates with bodily harm if they touch whatever baked goods might be waiting. But as I look beyond the guys with their bags strapped across their chests, hefting coolers ahead of me, I stop.