Chapter 3 - The Man with the Gold RingWe never made it back to our seats.
A medical attendant was waiting outside the conference room by the time we emerged. She had been sent by the hospital, Malcolm explained, because Ethan's care team had insisted that someone remain available during the trip.
Ethan protested that he was fine.
He was not fine.
His face had gone ashen, and he kept pressing one hand against his ribs. The medication had been making him nauseated all week, and the excitement of the game had pushed him harder than his body could manage.
I wrapped my arm around his waist.
"We're going to sit somewhere quiet."
He nodded, too tired to argue.
Malcolm ordered a private elevator to take us down to the medical suite. He came with us despite Victor's repeated calls. The old man looked as if he had forgotten the stadium existed.
For the first time, I noticed that he was carrying the photograph of Daniel in his hand. He kept staring at it as though the image might change if he looked long enough.
Inside the medical suite, Ethan lay down on a narrow bed. The attendant checked his pulse, asked a few questions, and gave him water.
I stood beside him, holding his hand.
"Sorry, Grandpa," Ethan murmured.
I bent over him.
"For what?"
"Ruining the trip."
Those words cut deeper than the diagnosis ever had.
"You didn't ruin anything."
"I was supposed to watch the whole game."
"Then we missed a football game. That's all."
He turned his face toward the wall, embarrassed by the tears gathering in his eyes.
Malcolm stood near the door, helpless.
I looked at him.
"Whatever you have to say, say it quickly. He needs rest."
Malcolm approached the bed.
"I owe you an apology, Ethan. I had no right to make this meeting happen without telling you what it involved."
"Then why did you?"
"Because I was afraid that if I asked for permission, you would say no."
Ethan looked at him.
"Maybe I would have."
"I know."
"Then maybe you should have let me."
Malcolm closed his eyes.
"You're right."
A long silence followed.
Then Ethan asked, "Did my dad ever talk about me?"
Malcolm looked startled.
"All the time, in the few messages I received before we stopped communicating completely. He said he wanted to become the sort of father he never had."
Ethan looked away.
"Well, he did."
The words were quiet, but Malcolm heard them. His shoulders shook once. He turned toward the window, giving himself a moment to recover.
I had spent fourteen years trying to make sure Ethan never felt abandoned.
Now an old man had arrived to show him just how many people had failed his father before he ever became a father himself.
When the attendant stepped out to call the hospital, I followed her into the corridor.
"How serious is this?" I asked.
"He's exhausted. The excitement, the noise, and the long day have taken a toll. We should get him back to the hotel and follow his treatment plan."
I thanked her.
When I returned, Malcolm was standing over a small table, studying the torn letter.
"There's a part you haven't shown us," I said.
He looked up.
"I haven't found the missing piece."
"Then why are you carrying it around?"
"Because it arrived with something else."
He reached into the folder and produced a small black envelope. Inside was a photograph of a man standing outside a maintenance building behind the Chicago Forge's old training complex.
The man was middle-aged, with a broad face and a deep scar along his jaw. He wore a gold ring on his right hand.
Not his left.
On the back, Daniel had written a name.
Victor Sloane.
I felt a cold wave pass through me.
"Your chief operating officer?"
Malcolm examined the picture.
"That's impossible. Victor wasn't involved in the medical department when Marcus Bell was injured."
"Maybe that is why Daniel kept the photograph."
Ethan, who had been listening from the bed, pushed himself upright.
"Look closer."
We turned to him.
He pointed at the edge of the photograph.
"There's something written on the door."
I leaned forward.
The image was grainy, but a faded number was visible on a metal panel.
Malcolm stopped breathing for a moment.
"That's the old equipment annex."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"Before the Forge moved into its current headquarters, the annex stored player equipment, film records, medical supplies, and archived training footage. Daniel worked there during his final months with the organization."
"Why would he take a photograph of Victor there?"
Malcolm rubbed his chin.
"Because he must have suspected Victor was involved in something."
"Or because Victor was the man wearing the ring," Ethan said.
Malcolm immediately looked at the gold ring he had placed on the table.
"Daniel's handwriting says not to trust the man who wears the ring. But this photograph shows Victor wearing one on his right hand. Mine has always been on my left."
"Maybe Daniel didn't mean the ring you think he meant," I said.
The thought seemed to unsettle Malcolm more than any accusation.
"Victor collects old championship rings. He has several. One of them belonged to a former Forge executive who died years ago."
"Who?" I asked.
"Arthur Pike. He was the team's medical director."
The name meant nothing to me.
It clearly meant something to Malcolm.
He sat down heavily.
"Arthur died in a car accident eleven months before Daniel and Hannah did."
The room became still.
Two accidents.
Two men linked to the organization.
And Daniel's warning that someone at the Forge knew what he had discovered.
Before I could ask another question, the door opened.
Victor entered with two security officers.
"Mr. Whitmore, we need to speak privately."
Malcolm rose.
"Not now."
"I'm afraid it's urgent."
Victor glanced at Ethan, then at me.
"I understand that emotions are running high. But this visit is becoming an unnecessary disruption. The family should be taken back to the hotel."
"We're leaving when we're ready," I said.
Victor smiled thinly.
"Of course, Mr. Carter. I would never prevent you from leaving."
Something in his tone made me distrust every word.
Malcolm stepped between us.
"Tell me what you want."
Victor held out his phone.
"A security alert. Someone accessed the old equipment annex less than an hour ago."
Malcolm stared at him.
"That building has been sealed for years."
"Apparently, someone has a key."
"Who?"
"We're checking the cameras."
Victor glanced toward the window.
"There's another issue. A vehicle followed the hospital shuttle into the staff parking area. Its driver left before security could identify him."
I looked at Ethan.
He had become very still.
"Did you see the vehicle?" I asked.
Victor didn't answer me.
Instead, he studied my grandson with an expression that was too thoughtful to be ordinary concern.
"Young man, did anyone give you anything when you arrived today? A card, an envelope, perhaps a gift?"
Ethan shook his head.
Victor's gaze dropped to the old jersey.
"What about that? Have you always owned it?"
"Since I was little."
"And your father gave it to you?"
"Yes."
Victor nodded slowly, as though Ethan had just confirmed something important.
Malcolm noticed.
"What are you looking for, Victor?"
"Nothing."
"You asked a very specific question."
"Because your grandson is wearing something connected to a man who may have stolen confidential information from this organization."
"My grandson has cancer," I said. "He came here to watch a football game. He is not a suspect in your corporate problems."
Victor's face turned cold.
"Nobody said he was."
He turned to the guards.
"Take Mr. Carter and the boy back to the hotel. Make sure their transportation is secure."
"No," Malcolm said.
Victor looked at his employer.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no. They will leave with me."
For a moment, I thought Victor might openly challenge him. Then he smiled, bowed his head, and stepped aside.
"Certainly."
Malcolm helped Ethan into his jacket. As we moved toward the door, Victor leaned close enough for me to hear him.
"Mr. Carter, my advice is simple. Go back to your hotel. Enjoy whatever time you have with your grandson. Don't let an old family tragedy ruin what remains of it."
I stopped walking.
"Is that a threat?"
"No," he replied softly. "It's a kindness."
His eyes moved to Ethan.
"And sometimes, kindness is the only warning people get."
I wanted to strike him.
Instead, I guided Ethan down the corridor.
Malcolm followed us to the elevator. As the doors closed, he looked older than he had ten minutes earlier.
"Victor knows more than he's admitting," I said.
"Yes."
"And you still let him run your organization?"
"Until today, I had no idea how deep this went."
I looked at him.
"That's what people always say after the damage is done."
He accepted the accusation without protest.
The elevator descended toward the private parking garage. Ethan leaned against me, exhausted but awake.
Just before the doors opened, he spoke.
"Grandpa?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"There's something I haven't told you."
I turned toward him.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"I found this in Dad's old football box at home before we left. I didn't think it mattered, so I brought it with me."
Malcolm snatched his breath.
The paper was an old equipment claim ticket bearing the faded Chicago Forge logo. A number had been stamped across the top.
Below it, in Daniel's handwriting, were seven words.
When the final whistle blows, look beneath the seat.
I stared at the ticket.
Then I remembered where we had been sitting before Malcolm's employee came to find us.
Row eighteen.
Seat twenty-four.
The same place where my grandson had worn his father's jersey and watched the game begin.
And beneath the seat where Ethan had been sitting, someone had already left a fresh strip of black tape.
There was something attached to the underside.
May you like
Something small.
Something that had been waiting fourteen years for us to find it.
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