Rich Man

Cunning... Conniving.

Thought process:
-Direct
-Manipulative
Sure of herself. She has no plan immediately, but will make one. I can be sure that she will fight psychological fire with fire. She underestimates, however, my growth. Her logic says that I should have digressed in the years since I quit the Wainright organization to pursue my own projects.

A drifting pen nearly fell off the page, indentations lighter and lazier until my thoughts took hold of the unfolding mental deterioration at my disposal and commandeered the journal, ultimately suspending production. Lingering on a burdened high, contorted by strained nerves and caution, a few closing words were jotted before I shut the journal and hid it safely within the confines of the desk's protective oak.

My body lingered still, bracing itself against the strong frame at my finger tips. By that moment I had gone over the scene a thousand times in my head, yet a clear sense of insecurity loomed effervescent with forlorn apprehension. My fingers twitched, eyes darting to the pen I had just put down.

She doesn't realize who she's dealing with. But maybe... Neither do I. Thoughts clambered shamelessly in my open mind, echoing my fears, my doubts. She has my intellect; perhaps even more. And she has friends... She has an entire organization of minds just as advanced a my own, a whole organization's wealth of experience. And I have myself... And only myself.

The slightest, minuscule theory bubbled into my brain; a light of hope, if you will. But I cast it aside so fast that it was questionable whether the thought had even ever crossed my mind at all. If I tell a soul about what I've done, I'll either be cast aside as an insane liar or watch the family around me crumble with the knowledge of the lies that surround. I feel as though I'm becoming something of a secret to Patrice. He repeats nothing of the knowledge I've bestowed upon him, instead acting as if we just enjoy casual conversation.

Milan has thankfully changed for the better, but not without a want of trying and the ability to trust in this ring of friends and in I, an intruder. Lex loves Blake, but for obvious reasons can say nothing of the topic. Blake is off getting his jollies through "Tera", who is actually my own demon from the past... And I fear that Patrice is damaged goods, unsure of himself emotionally and rather uncaring of such crucial aspects to a confused human heart. It, I admit, is my fault.

All of this is.

I lingered, closing my eyes with forced patience before getting too sucked into the black depths of my whirling thoughts. A thin bead of nervous, frigid sweat slid leisurely down some invisible path in my florid cheek. My limbs had ceased shaking for quite some time now and yet, I just couldn't let go of the fear that swelled in my core; an impenetrable wall of dense self-doubt, a thousand blades of fear ripping through my system like the foul swoop of a raven to prey.

It would not be long before I would find myself gazing into those dark, demonic eyes, contorted with nothing more than unforgiving, unrestricted malice. And she was right: I would have no one when that time should come.

Three days... I thought carefully. Three days.

---

Puck drop flew by; a simple fly on the wall of my buzzing conscience. The entire length of game time was spent doing laps around TD Garden, desperately trying to walk off my restlessness. I had never felt so helpless before, so trapped behind my own lies to the point at which it undermined my entire operation--but that was the point, right?

Still, ideas came and went, scenarios flashing behind my every blink and falling perilously back to the depths of chaos from which it was derived. "Look at that, a friend in the world. You should really get a few. They tend to come in handy. And you're probably going to need one. Too bad no one can know. It's a pity, really, the shit I'm going to put you through."

"You're fucking pathetic; a real waste, truly."

An evil, soured expression took hold of her features. True anger, arid fury welled behind her deep eyes as she stared me down with what could only be described as unfiltered hatred. "You embarrassed me, made acceptance a feat of near impossibility as a leader all because you couldn't keep in your own business and let me finish my own assignment. But that's okay. Because now I'm not going to let you finish your own either. Ciao."

The end of the long scene replayed before my eyes for what felt like the hundredth time. And it probably was. Letting out a shallow breath, I watched the third period take a commercial intermission. From my seat up high I felt as though I was perched on a pedestal, looming above the puppets to whose fates I held the strings; because essentially that's all Blake and his friends were now: Puppets. And I would have to use them as such without "friends".

Wait, I interrupted myself as each individual's face flickered behind my eyes. I paused mid thought to linger and contemplate a new plan, a new formula. I do have friends here. At least one that I could use to optimal efficiency. And I know exactly how, exactly where and when. But first she has to make her move. And when that happens, I'll be ready--No, we will be ready.

-----

The decision was set before I even laid eyes on the boy whose game had been won. We were all to pile into our cars and head back home for a night in when he sent me a curious little text. Ride with me? I have some questions. Meet me in the back so we can take off together.

My first instinct was to comply and, uncharacteristically so, I made my way toward the rear of TD Garden without so much as a witty remark. Instead I returned, I'm wearing your jersey and jeans, kid. Be there in five.

That sounds awkward. Hahahaha

I meant MY jeans!

I know, I know. Just get back here already. I told security you're coming so they'll be looking for you.

Someone's impatient.

Someone is really slow.

"Har har," I let out with a half smile as the security guard allowed me to pass. My voice rang out as soon as Patrice and I locked eyes from opposite sides of the parking lot. A few complaints from fans echoed behind me, but I could only exude more confidence in my endeavor.

Patrice ran a hand through his damp hair, soft grin greeting my fiery eyes as though he was awkwardly facing impending doom with open arms. A car to my left unlocked, lights flashing with the action as he approached. The trunk popped open as he approached and dumped his bag inside. "You look good in my jersey," he commented with an almost friendly smirk, "Well, better mine than Milan's. Or Krej's. Or anyone's, actually."

"Except mine!" Savvy sounded from seemingly out of nowhere. I jumped slightly, but gave the man a quick hug and looked back and Patrice with a chuckle.

"Damn straight, kid," I shook my head, giggling, and made for Patrice's passenger door. After slipping inside and buckling myself safely into my seat, I waved with a grin at Savvy and awaited the screaming crowd of fans that awaited us.

"Do you want to head straight home or do you mind if I stop for some signatures?" the boy inquired awkwardly, fingers already strumming the smooth plastic cap of the silver sharpie in his pocket. I wasn't about to strip him of the duty he had unofficially and somehow subconsciously assigned himself.

We pulled up gradually to a thick, impenetrable line of people. The boy's eyes lit up as several fans of all shapes and sized thrust articles of clothing, little Stanley Cups, and items galore to be marked. I watched carefully, stomach knotting tighter with his every blink and kind word. He was truly loved here; something I had only ever watched from the sidelines.

But that was the curious nature of my abilities. I was not one to accept the limelight, but shape it. I was its controller, the master of fates, if you will. Yet my playing God came with perilous consequences that, only in times such as these, I would risk triggering.

Fifteen, then twenty minutes passed. We reached the end of the line. He rolled up his window and casually tossed his sharpies in the back seat, adjusting his seat belt to a more comfortable fit.

"You have questions for me?" I inquired softly, gazing out the window as we sped down a shady back street.

"It wasn't really a question, I guess," he started, letting out a slightly embarrassed, sordid laugh, "I sorta just wanted to talk."

"About?"

"Us."

I swallowed, eyes snapping from their lazy wonderment and into a deadlocked stare at the windshield. "We're a bipolar pair, are we not?" I questioned with some mild humor.

Patrice wasn't laughing. He chewed his bottom lip in that way that made me kind of want to chew on my own, his soft brown eyes contorting with his apparent nerves as he focused on the road. "Yeah, we really are... I guess I'm just kind of... Well I know it might all sound fucking weird, but--"

"You need advice. About me, from me, right?" When he didn't immediately reply, I just continued on, "Look, you don't need to spill any guts with me. Just know that I care about you, okay? Same with everyone else--Lex, Blake, everybody. Being here, as cheesy as shit as it sounds, I feel like for the first time I really have a family.

"And I know you and I have acted rather... unconventional at best as of late, just know that it doesn't change anything. So yeah, we've gotten a little hands on, then the polar opposite. It doesn't change the fact that you, just as much as the rest of the gang, mean a lot to me."

He was silent for a long while, or so it seemed. Vacant eyes drifted out to the road before him, turns occupying his tired hands. "Well that was..."

"Gushy, I know."

"Actually, I was thinking that it means a lot to hear that." My ears perked. "You say a lot of things," he chuckled, "But to have your acceptance means a lot more than I think you realize. You've become like a mental mentor to me."

"And you've become my peer, kid," I replied quietly. "Remember all those months ago, when I called you my weakness?"

Hi cheeks lit slightly with the thought. "Yeah, back when I was head over heels infatuated with figuring you out."

"It's shifted to much more than that. I hate to get to sentimental, but listen close 'cause I'm not gonna say this again. No matter what happens from here on out, know that I have never steered you wrong or would ever intend to hurt you. You are no longer my weakness, but a strength. Which I guess.... Well, I guess I should talk to you about."

"Talk about what?"

I waited until he was parked and both of us were out of his car to proceed. "You're extremely bright, Patrice, much more bright than I think you understand or, at this point, are capable of fathoming."

"Why say it so gravely?" he inquired with narrowed eyes, giving me a hand signal not to reply as we made our way through the entry way and to his room. It didn't appear that anyone was back yet; they were all more than likely out getting drinks or what have you. Which worked extremely well for me.

"Because tonight, kid, I have a lot I need to tell you about. And not a lot of time to work with."