Conrad (The Minnesota Kingstons #2)

Chapter 3

THREE

Maybe he should just hang up his skates.

Conrad stormed into the locker room and sent his helmet crashing against his locker. It bounced, hit the floor, and spun out, just like his gameplay today.

Behind him, his team came in, a few slapping Justin’s—Blade’s—shoulder pads for his game-tying goal.

Blade shot Conrad a glance, a hint of challenge in his eyes, before he sank onto the bench and unlaced his skates.

Conrad already had his off, his socks sweaty, his body one giant ache thanks to the beating he’d gotten from the Colorado Sting.

He’d given out a few too, spent at least a minute in the box for boarding, but it had rattled the Sting and given Torch, his left winger, a chance to score.

And then, somehow, after the second period, he’d lost his mojo, his verve, and he was bouncing shots off the pipes, ringing the iron on all his attempts, if not outright sending the puck into the cheap seats.

He’d looked like the rookie out there.

Wyatt Marshall—their goalie—came in and sat down next to him. Pulled off his jersey, then picked up Conrad’s helmet from the floor, set it on the bench. “Could be worse.”

“How?” He put his skates in the sharpening bin above his locker.

“We could have lost.”

“We tied. I lost a half dozen face-offs, turned over the puck at the blue line three times, we had more broken plays than wins, I missed too many back-checks, and by the end of the game, I was just slapping at anything that moved. No wonder coach took me out.”

“Everybody has a bad day.”

“Try a bad month. Sheesh, if I were coach, I . . . well, I don’t want to jinx the ice, but . . .” Dropping his breezers, he stepped out of them, pulled off his jersey and pads, then headed for the showers, grabbing a towel on the way.

Ten minutes later, he emerged, towel at his hips, his clothes in their mesh bag, which he dropped into the hamper, still steamed at the game.

Although, the chilly shower had cut his anger into mere frustration.

Until he spotted Blade, the rookie, talking with a female reporter.

In their locker room.

He walked over, not caring that he might be in the shot. “You’re supposed to stay in the designated interview area.”

Justin looked at him, back at the reporter, flashed her a grin. “The old man is worried about you seeing all his saggy parts?—”

And that was it. Conrad put a hand over the camera, shoved it down and away, and looked at the woman. Couldn’t remember her name, although he’d seen her before. Wait. “Ava. You know better. Team rules—media stays in the media area—” He pointed to a space on the far side of the room, behind the showers.

She held up the mic. “Wanna respond to Blade’s stellar performance out there tonight? Or maybe your time in the penalty box?”

He turned his back to her, put a hand on Justin’s chest. “You know better too.”

Justin slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me, old man.”

Old. man?

He dropped his hand, took a step into Justin’s face, lowered his voice. “Listen, pup. Respect your team.”

Justin’s jaw tightened, and he shot a glance behind him, then took a breath and backed away.

Conrad rounded back to the reporter. But the movement, of course, jostled his towel, and he got a hand on it just before it unlatched.

Ava’s mouth twitched.

“Did you not hear me?”

She narrowed her eyes but gestured with her head for her cameraman to follow her.

Conrad stood, a hand on his towel, watching until they retreated.

He got a couple high fives as he returned to the locker area. Wyatt had also returned, his hair wet, wearing a pair of jeans, barefoot, bare chested.

“Thanks, man. That’s not the first time she’s pushed the edge. Apparently, she thinks rules don’t apply to her.”

Conrad pulled on pants, then reached for a T-shirt, his chest a little less tight.

Wyatt closed his locker, holding his jacket in one hand. “See you at Sammy’s?”

“Dunno. Maybe.” Although, maybe he needed to spend some time in the darkness of his home theater, rewatching the game.

Rewiring his reactions.

He sat, pulled on his boots, tied up his laces, and looked up to see a few of the guys now meeting with media in the designated area. His contract stated that he needed to stop in, offer himself up like a tasty morsel after every game. Even Wyatt stopped by, now cornered by a different female sportscaster, probably pinning him down on the two goals he’d let slip by, completely ignoring his twenty-plus shots-on-goal saves.

That’s how it was though. The reporters only wanted to talk about the worst. Or—and he spotted Justin, talking again with Ava—the best.

No, not the best. Justin had gotten lucky, taken advantage of his moment in the spotlight while Conrad had sat out with his line for a breather.

Whatever. He had his moment in the sun.

“Old man.” Hardly. He had at least three, maybe five good years left.

Okay, two. One more contract, however. And please let it be with the Blue Ox. He just had to make it past the trade deadline in three weeks, and he’d finish the season with the Ox.

He always played better in the last forty days before the end of the regular season.

Grabbing his gear bag, he got up and headed for the door.

Coach Jace Jacobsen emerged from his locker-room office, just by the door, and leaned his big shoulder on the frame. Gestured with his head for Conrad to join him.

Perfect. Conrad sighed and followed the coach into the office.

Jace shut the door behind him.

Posters of former teams from the last twenty years hung on the walls around the room, with a few blowups of their stars over the years. Jace, a former winger and enforcer for the team, had his own mug blown up, looking fierce as he stared into the camera. Now he wore the same dark expression as he folded his arms.

“Sit, Conrad.”

Oh, this would be fun. Conrad sank into one of the folding chairs, dropped his bag on the floor. “’Sup, Coach?”

Jace took a breath. “The Department of Player Safety is reviewing that hit you did on Kowalcyzk.”

“What? They were hitting just as hard. Besides, I already sat in the box for it.”

Jace held up a hand. “Listen. I know how it gets. Believe me—I had my share of hits, both given and taken. But hockey’s changed since I played. Player safety is a priority. They’re reviewing the hit for a charging infraction to the neck and head.”

“C’mon—he was shorter than me?—”

Jace again held up a hand. “More than that—you played like a third grader tonight. What’s going on?”

Right. Conrad leaned back, looked away, out at the media room. Maybe he should be grateful Coach had pulled him in here. But the last—very last—thing he could admit was that he hadn’t been sleeping.

That he was like a third grader, waking in the middle of the night for the past three days, sweating, bursting out of a sound sleep. Maybe even doing a small pillow hug.

Memories, not nightmares, and in every one of them, he was the one who lost a leg.

Although, sometimes the nightmares shifted and he found himself in frigid water, the earth having given out beneath him.

And in between the nightmares, when he woke and stared at his coffered ceiling, Penelope Pepper walked into his head. And it wasn’t just her “I don’t think that’s a good idea” to his offer to text, but the other words, spoken to the skinny lawyer in the bathroom earlier that night. “Since I’ve been investigating this case, I’ve been kidnapped and seen two men shot and people murdered.”

So, hurt and worry were a stupendous combination for getting back to sleep.

He might have worked out a little harder than he’d needed to, so he’d blame tired muscles, too.

He looked back at Coach. “Just not sleeping great, maybe.”

“Fix it,” Jace said. “And in the meantime, you’re suspended from this weekend’s road games.”

He blinked at him. “What?” He found himself on his feet. “Coach— c’mon. I’ll get it together—I always do?—”

“Sit down, Conrad.” Voice low, steady, a hint of the old enforcer in his tone.

Conrad’s mouth tightened. but he lowered himself back into his chair.

“I know that’s not what you want to hear—especially with the draft deadline coming up, but frankly, maybe you need a head swap. Get your brain out of the game for five minutes, or ten, and do something that activates your muscle memory. You can play hockey—no one is doubting that you’re a legend in the league. But you’ve got the yips.”

“Don’t say that. It’s like referencing Macbeth at a theater. Now you’ve jinxed me.”

Jace held his gaze. “It’s that kind of thinking that leads to the yips.”

“Please, for crying out loud?—”

Jace smiled. “Fine. I get it—I used to not wash my socks the entire Stanley tournament.” He blew out a breath. “Still. You’re close to burning yourself out.” He walked around his desk. Picked up a bulky, oversized package and tossed it to Conrad.

“What’s this?”

“Congratulations. You’re the new assistant coach for the Northwest Ice Hawks.”

“The who? I’m what?” He opened the package. A jersey, a whistle, and a schedule. He pulled the gear out.

“EmPowerPlay has a team that’s going to the regional playoffs in a couple weeks. They need a coach. Someone who can help them win.”

“What? I’m not a coach.” He looked up. “Jace. Please?—”

Jace stood, arms folded, unmoving.

Aw . . . “Listen, you need me. The team needs me—even if I’m on the bench?—”

“We’re playing the Boise Blizzard. Trust me, we got this.” Jace leaned on the desk. “I’m going to be honest. I like you. A lot. You’re a Minnesota guy, a homegrown favorite, and I don’t want to see you go. But there’s talk about trading you.”

Shoot —he knew it. But still, the words landed like a blade in his heart.

“However, this game isn’t all about stats. Not when it comes to hometown love and ticket sales. Truth is, the crowd, our crowd, loves you. And if you can make them love you even more, the powers that be will think twice about trading you. At least midseason.” He stood up. “Like you said, you always seem to land the last forty days until playoffs. And there’s no doubt you’ve carried us through the last few years.” He folded his arms again. “I don’t want to lose you. So . . . work with me.”

And what was he going to say to that?

He sighed. “How many games am I out?”

“Just this weekend. And you just have to coach up to the tournament. Then call it good.” Jace gave him a smile. “It wouldn’t hurt if you won, either.”

“Right.” Conrad stood up. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s never in doubt.” Jace reached out to shake his hand.

Conrad met the grip, not sure why, despite his temporary banishment, the terrible fist had loosened in his chest.

“I think you’re safe.” Jace lifted his head, indicating the media room.

Conrad turned and saw that most of the reporters had left.

“Just pray you don’t end up on social media, clutching your towel. But way to take one for the team.” Coach grinned.

Conrad rolled his eyes. “If they haven’t seen enough of me. Next year, count me off the calendar.”

Jace laughed. “As the former, ahem, clothed centerfold for Hockey Today, I get ya. Hang in there. Think of the lives you’re saving.”

Conrad groaned and headed out the door and into the tunnel to the exit. The breath of the ice lingered, almost a challenge, but he ignored it, setting his bag over his shoulder.

But not before he heard laughter, words.

He turned, headed back down the tunnel to the ice.

One of the two swinging doors was still propped open, and as he stood at the entrance, he spotted Justin.

On the ice, his arms around Ava, teaching her how to shoot a puck.

She must have a good five years on him, but Justin didn’t seem to mind, his twenty-two-year-old brain clearly on sparks between them as she leaned into him.

Yeah, that was trouble waiting to happen.

He turned and headed out to the parking lot. Dropped his duffel in the trunk, then got in the Charger and dropped the package on the passenger seat. Picked up his phone, where he’d left it charging during the game, no distractions.

Thumbed open his text messages, just in case. Of course, nothing. Not that he expected anything, but . . .

Aw, shoot. He’d hoped, maybe. A little.

Clearly, Penelope Pepper had meant what she’d said.

Jace was right. He needed a brain transplant. One that didn’t include Penelope Pepper and her murder mystery.

It might help if said brain could erase the past, too, thank you. He’d give his Ducati Panigale V4 for a decent night’s sleep.

While he waited for his car to warm up, he glanced at the package on the passenger seat. Picked it up and pulled out the jersey.

Icy blue and silver with a hawk on the chest, wings wide, talons out.

He groaned. No, no —how had he not put together Jace’s words with Simon’s team?

Conrad sighed, leaned his head back.

So much for escaping his nightmares.

* * *

Her opening music—a seductive saxophone melody—faded out, and Penelope leaned into her Shure SM7B microphone, her voice smooth, even, and perfect for her late-night audience. Or whenever her listeners wanted to download her podcast.

“Hello, puzzlers! You’re tuned in to Penny for Your Thoughts, the podcast where no clue is too small and no theory too wild. I’m your host, Penelope Pepper, diving deep into the twists and turns of the Case of Sarah Livingston.”

She sat in her basement office, remodeled after she’d bought the 1927 home on Wood Lane in Minneapolis, a tiny dead-end street that backed up to Minnehaha Creek. A Tudor with sweeping rooflines and a slant-ceiling second-floor attic, she’d gutted the place and redone it to give it the vintage-modern vibe that felt like home.

Unlike the Pepper palace on the lake.

The basement office was her haven. Wood flooring with a plush lamb’s-wool rug, an antique oak desk that sat in the middle of the room, whitewash over the original brick walls, and Tiffany lighting. Behind her, a shelf stocked with vintage Agatha Christie mysteries, and a teal-painted wooden cabinet that held her research. Above that, on the wall, an old map of Minneapolis–St. Paul held pushpins that indicated places in her investigation.

For inspiration, on the other walls hung movie posters— Rear Window and North by Northwest. But her favorite spot was her grandmother’s blue velvet Queen Anne chair, worn yet decadently comfortable, seated in the corner with books piled on the floor nearby.

On her desk, two monitors captured her notes for today’s monologue.

“Sarah, a vibrant real estate agent, was murdered in her own home under circumstances that grow stranger by the day. No forced entry, and witnesses saw a masked man running from her townhome late at night. Her ex-boyfriend, Holden Walsh, alibied out, which left the police with no motive, no leads, and a cold trail. And the Penny for Your Thoughts listeners on the hunt. Since our last episode, the plot has thickened, and today I’ve got some critical updates and theories that might just blow the roof off this case.”

A glance at the starburst clock on the wall suggested she needed to get moving. The publicist for EmPowerPlay expected her out at the rink in two hours. She pitched her voice low, adding a bit of play to it.

“First off, remember Kyle Brunley? Sarah’s best friend, suspected of the murder by some because of his rumored jealousy over Sarah’s ex-boyfriend Walsh? Tragically, Kyle was found dead, his car crashed in a ditch.” She leaned into the mic, changed her voice again. “Accident . . . or silenced forever?”

She pushed a button, and a sound effect of a gasp emitted into the recording.

“And then there’s Tommy, Sarah’s neighbor, recently out of surgery after being shot in what was described as a ‘freak accident.’ But, folks, how many freak accidents can one case have, hmm?”

Glancing at her notes, she continued. “Adding more mystery, we learned that before her death, Sarah’s home was burglarized. Her computer was stolen—why? What was on that computer? Was it connected to the fire at the Stone Arch Condos, leading to the death of one man?”

She hadn’t yet announced who that man was—and maybe, given the conversation with Tia . . .

No. Edward’s death had to have been a murder. She felt it in her gut.

“These weren’t just any condos, folks—they were owned by none other than Walsh and his elusive partner, Derek Swindle. Did Walsh share something dangerous with Sarah before their breakup? And where in the world is Walsh now? He’s missing, and as each day passes, the questions pile up like clues in a detective’s docket.”

She pushed another button, and a telephone rang. “Let’s see what you have to say. I want to hear your theories, no matter how out there they might seem. Let’s go—a penny for your thoughts.”

The calls came in, recorded on her site earlier in the week, and she posted the most juicy. The first call came on the line. Eager. “Hi, Penny, longtime listener here! I’ve got a theory—what if Walsh and Swindle are in witness protection because they stumbled onto a real estate laundering ring? Maybe Sarah found out and . . . well, you know.”

“Fascinating take!” Penelope said. “Witness protection is a twist I hadn’t considered. Thanks for your thoughts!”

Another telephone ring.

“Caller two, hit me with your theory.”

This one could be a podcaster, with her conspiratorial tone. “Hey, Penelope, here’s what I think: aliens. Yes, aliens are using real estate to infiltrate our society. Maybe Sarah caught on to their plans!”

“Okay, caller two. Our armchair PIs never disappoint with their creativity. Thanks for adding some extraterrestrial intrigue to the mix.”

She’d cued up two more calls.

“Hi, Penny, love the show. Here’s my theory: what if this whole thing is a cover-up for a bigger scandal? Maybe Sarah discovered fraudulent activities tied to the real estate market, involving not just Walsh and Swindle but higher-ups in the industry. Her computer might have had evidence that could bring down a lot of powerful people!”

This one she liked, a lot. Had already jotted that angle down for more investigation. “Oh, a classic corruption angle—nothing like financial scandal to stir the pot. Thanks for weighing in with that sharp insight! And our final caller for tonight . . .”

“Hey, Penny, I’ve been thinking—what if it’s all about personal vendettas? Maybe someone from the apartment-complex fire saw something—even Sarah at the scene—and thought she had something to do with it through her connection to Walsh. Perhaps they sought revenge not just on her but on everyone close to her, like Kyle and Tommy. Remember, ‘If the fact will not fit the theory—let the theory go.’”

An Agatha Christie quote—she’d heard it before from this caller. But this theory stilled her. She hadn’t considered that Sarah might have been complicit in a crime that had led to her murder. “Revenge—a motive as old as time itself. That’s a chilling but entirely possible scenario. Thank you for your thoughtful contribution.”

Two interesting theories, at least.

She didn’t have time for the last one, but it also sat in her brain. “Hi there, Penny! Here’s a wild card: what if Sarah was part of an undercover investigation? Maybe she was working with the police or a private detective to expose illegal activities in the real estate business and her cover was blown.”

Penelope needed to recover the information from Kyle’s jump drive, or sussing out the theories would be like herding cats.

She cued her transition music. “Keep these theories coming, folks. Every angle provides a new piece of the puzzle in unraveling the secrets of Sarah Livingston. Call and leave a message, and let’s unravel this mystery together on Penny for Your Thoughts . In a world full of puzzles, your thoughts might just be the missing piece. See you next time—toodles!”

She hit her outro, a mix of jazz music, and then stopped recording. Saving it to the cloud, she sent her producer a message, then picked up her phone.

A text. And no, she didn’t expect Conrad to text her—after all, she’d been the one to shut him down. But she couldn’t deny the craziest, unmerited disappointment that Lucas Reid, newly promoted PR director for the Pepper Foundation, had sent her a digital reminder to BE AT THE NORTH STAR ARENA BY FOUR P.M., all caps.

Sheesh, calm down. She closed her computer, then slid the barn door open and headed through her finished basement to the upstairs, through the open great room/kitchen, to her second-floor bedroom, the entire top level, with a master bathroom that overlooked the river. After changing into yoga pants and an oversized EmPowerPlay sweatshirt, she pulled back her long hair, added a white furry headband, then headed downstairs, donned her UGGs, grabbed her keys, and was out the door.

See. She could be on time.

She headed west on Highway 7, out past Waconia, listening to a murder mystery on tape—a book about an art thief in Boston.

She finally pulled up to the North Star Arena, a massive steel building just east of Duck Lake, with a star on the apex of the building and trucks and SUVs filling the lot.

Hopefully Lucas would be here with his iPhone, or whatever he planned on taking pictures with, and she could buzz in, buzz out, get on with her day.

Not that she had any plans beyond a bubble bath and the rest of her audiobook.

The icy air met her as she walked inside, shouts echoing along with the crisp shots of pucks and the swish of skates. She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes late. Practically fashionable.

A smattering of parents sat in the bleachers, watching, a few shouting encouragement and bleacher advice to the coach.

She spotted Lucas sitting on a bench a couple rows up from the entrance. He waved to her—nice-looking guy, late twenties, clean-shaven, wearing glasses, his dark hair behind his ears, a little of a renegade aura despite his suit pants and puffer jacket.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“They started early,” he said. “Apparently the new coach changed the time.” He gestured to a couple of guys across the ice. One of them Simon, whom she recognized when he skated nearer to the edge, blowing his whistle.

The kids—a motley crew dressed in worn jerseys, a few in jeans— what? —passed pucks to each other in pairs as they raced down the ice.

The other coach worked with a group of players, crouching down as he talked with them, his back to her.

“They’re not bad. They were pretty unorganized when I got here, but that coach stepped in and they did a three-puck relay.”

She glanced at him. “Did you play hockey?”

“I’m a Minnesotan. Of course I played hockey.” He smiled up at her, winked.

Wait— was he flirting with her?

“Did you get any shots?”

He handed over his Canon DSLR.

She flipped through the shots of the players in huddles and then moving up the ice, then the coaches skating up to assist, and then a close-up of one of the coaches instructing a kid, maybe thirteen, about correct hand placement on the stick?—

Her breath hitched. Wait—what?

She looked up at Lucas. “Is that Conrad Kingston?”

He took the camera, looked at the screen. “I think so.”

Aw.

“I told them we’d get some shots of you and the team when they break.” He frowned. “Where are your skates?”

“My, um . . . skates?”

“Aw, shoot. I texted you. Or—” He pulled out his phone. “Yeah, here it is, unsent.” He dropped the phone back into his pocket. “Okay, so I’ll see if I can find some. You do know how to skate, right?”

“In hockey skates?”

He shrugged. “Aren’t all skates the same?”

She sighed. “No. But I am Minnesotan. I suppose I can figure out how to stand up.”

Or not. Because twenty minutes later, oversized used skates on her feet, she ventured out onto the ice like a toddler.

It didn’t help that she’d spent the previous twenty minutes watching Conrad, her insides knotting up with a heat that she didn’t want to interpret. He looked good. Better than good—solid, a hockey superhero out there as he worked with the kids and then showed off a little as he taught them how to flick in shots from the crease, Simon suited up as goalkeeper.

He wore a serious, grim look—a close-up she nabbed via Lucas’s viewfinder—and she discovered he’d trimmed his beard even shorter than at the gala, had a sort of whiskered north-woods look about him, especially with the thermal shirt that poked out of his jersey. Not a Blue Ox jersey either, but Ice Hawks, so clearly he was buying street cred with the team.

While she looked like an idiot. Oh, this was a bad idea?—

“You need a hand there?”

She looked up, and of course Conrad skated right up to her like he might have been born on skates.

Of course he had.

He smiled at her, but it seemed a little tight, even as he held out his hand.

She grabbed it, wobbled, and he grabbed her other arm.

“Ho-kay. First time on skates?”

“Not even a little. I grew up on Lake Minnetonka, thank you.” She didn’t mean to snap, but— seriously . He needed to stop being so . . . fantastic.

Like holding her up as they skated to the center, where the team posed with their sticks. And then even kneeling in front of her so she could steady herself as she gave a thumbs-up for the camera and smiled.

More shots, and he was right. there . Even caught her again when her feet defected.

“Gotcha,” he said.

Oh, no, no— because he smiled at her and winked and . . .

Lucas snapped a shot.

And then she got it. Clarice. She’d called Felicity, and the game was on. The entire thing was an act—all the charm, all the music, the bone-weakening smiles.

Well, two could play that game—actually two should play that game.

She winked back.

His eyebrows arched.

She gripped his arms, pulled herself close, then encircled his waist. Grinned up at him. “Don’t let go. I might end up a splotch on the ice.”

He seemed have gone a little pale but nodded.

She looked at Lucas and smiled.

Flash.

They finished the shoot, and Conrad helped her back to the side. Let her go. “Okay, that was . . . unexpected.”

She sat on a bench, unlacing her skates, looked up at him. “Yeah, for sure. I didn’t think . . .” She sighed. “Anyway, thanks for the photos.”

“Yeah, well, it’s part of the deal, right? Show up, smile, do some good for the team.”

“Land a new contract.”

He blinked at her. Then his smile faded and he nodded. “Hopefully.”

And if she’d had any lingering ideas or even hopes that this might be real . . . well, really, she got it. And didn’t blame him at all.

Hockey was his life. He couldn’t lose it.

She fought with the skates, and he knelt and helped her, pulling the blade. She leaned back, held on as he wrenched it off, nearly stumbled back.

She held up her other foot, spotted Lucas again with the camera, waved, and then grinned as Conrad pulled off the other skate.

He held them in his grip as she reached for her UGGs. He started to say something, but seemed to hesitate.

Lucas had skated—of course—over to the other bench.

Then, “The team is going over to Lakeside Pizza Company. You want to come along?”

Oh. “Is Lucas going?”

He glanced over. “The photographer?”

“Yes. He’s with EmPowerPlay.”

His mouth opened, closed. Turned into a grim line. “Dunno. I mean, we can invite him.”

Clarice would be thrilled. More personal shots. And maybe Penelope could do an end run around Conrad until Clarice ran out of posting material. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he said, and sighed. “See you there.”

Then he stepped out onto the ice and skated his magnificent deceptive self away from her.