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there?’
    ‘No. I guess not.’
    ‘What about gifts?’
    ‘Gifts?’ she said, confused.
    ‘What’s your stance on gifts?’
    ‘Um … I tend to like them.’
    ‘Wonderful,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. ‘Because I have a gift for you.’
    She immediately tensed. ‘I hope it isn’t jewellery. Otherwise, we might have to revisit the dirty-old-man conversation we had earlier.’
    He brushed aside the remark. ‘Good heavens, Maria. It’s nothing like that. In fact, it’s the least romantic gift I can think of.’
    She relaxed slightly. ‘What is it?’
    He extended his hand to reveal a metal cross. Approximately six inches in length, it appeared to be quite old. Accented by four red stones, which were mounted near the ends of the beams, it had a small hole in the middle of the cross. At first glance, she couldn’t tell if a jewel had been pried from the centre or something had fallen off over the years. Whatever the case, the cross was still beautiful, despite the hole.
    She took it in her hands. ‘Where did you get this?’
    ‘On a recent dig,’ he explained. ‘Unlike you, I’m
not
a religious person – never have been, never will be – so I have no use for this trinket. I’m simply not the praying type. However, I thought someone in your field might appreciate it. If not, I’d be happy to return it to our box of goodies. You’d be surprised what you find when you search for long enough.’

12
    After dinner, Payne and Jones went to a sports bar on East Carson Street, where they could shoot pool and watch the hockey game. Led by Sidney Crosby, one of the best players in the world, the Pittsburgh Penguins were playing a late-night game against the Vancouver Canucks. Despite the bad weather outside, the bar was packed with Penguins fans, many of whom wore the team’s black and gold colours as they guzzled beer and shouted profanities at the dozens of TVs.
    For Payne, a joint like this felt like home. Despite his military academy education and his title as CEO of Payne Industries, he was a blue-collar guy at heart. Raised by his grandfather, who had started out as a labourer at a local steel mill before starting his own company, Payne spent much of his childhood in a hard hat. During the school year, he was allowed to concentrate on academics and athletics, both of which he excelled at, but during the summer months, his grandfather put him to work on the floor alongside grizzled men more than twice his age who picked on him because of his surname. The experience did more than toughen Payne up. It showed him how blessed he was to have opportunities outside of the mill.
    ‘Nice shot,’ Jones teased as he put down his beer and grabbed the pool cue from Payne. ‘Too bad you missed.’
    Payne shrugged. ‘The hockey game distracted me.’
    ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s still my turn. Let me show you how it’s done.’ Jones eyed the table for a few seconds, then pointed to the far end. ‘Six ball, corner pocket.’
    He calmly lined up the shot, then buried the ball with one swift strike.
    Payne grunted but said nothing, which was standard protocol for them. When they competed against each other, compliments were nonexistent unless someone did something miraculous – like a hole-in-one in golf or a 300-game in bowling – and even those comments came begrudgingly. Once their match was complete, their friendship returned to normal, but during the heat of battle, they were competitors who did just about anything to gain an advantage. And that included playing mind games.
    ‘So,’ Payne said, ‘I’m surprised you like eight-ball as much as you do.’
    Jones moved around the table, looking for his next shot. ‘Why’s that?’
    ‘Because it’s a blatantly racist game.’
    ‘You mean like hockey? I haven’t seen a black player yet.’
    ‘No, I’m talking about the game’s hidden meaning.’
    Jones shook his head, trying to ignore Payne. ‘You are so predictable. As soon as I start to win,