Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
TANK
S tone’s apartment is exactly what you’d expect from a well-paid, single professional athlete who’s new in town: sleek, modern, and barely lived-in, with a massive TV dominating the living room wall and a high-end sound system that probably cost more than my pitiful signing bonus.
When I arrive at five ‘til six, Stephanie is already relaxing on the couch and Cruise is hunched over a laptop at the kitchen island with Stone pacing excitedly behind him.
“There he is!” Stone exclaims, lifting his beer my way. “Just in time, man. Garcia’s supposed to meet Dan at 6:30, but we’re expecting him to get there early to scope things out.”
“Where’s the meeting happening?” Steph asks, joining me at the island as I unpack our food. She makes a happy humming sound and rubs my back. “Thanks for this, babe. I’m starving.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, accepting the kiss she presses to my cheek with a smile.
“Focus, lovebirds,” Stone says. “Also, please remember that I’m on a dating fast and your lovey-dovey stuff is kind of like eating chocolate cake in front of a man on a diet.”
Steph lifts her hands in surrender. “Sorry about that. We’ll be good. I promise. I’m too hungry to waste any more time kissing anyway.” She collects her meal, then pushes the bag my way with a secret smile I feel damned lucky to be on the receiving end of.
“They’re meeting at an old warehouse near the river,” Cruise explains, gesturing to his laptop. “We’ve got cameras set up at three different angles, and Dan’s wearing the mic bracelet. I’m recording the feed here, and Dan has a backup drive at the warehouse. So, we should be covered, no matter what happens.” His brow furrows. “I’m trying to figure out how to livestream this shit on Stone’s T.V.” He curses beneath his breath. “But, turns out I’m a pro athlete and not a spy… Or a tech genius.”
“This all seems pretty techy to me,” I say. “I appreciate all the trouble you guys went to. I really do.”
Justin waves away my thanks, his gaze still locked on the screen. “Stop it, man. This is for us, too. We don’t want a lying, scheming snot gobbler on our team. Come take a look. Worst case scenario, we can all huddle around my computer to watch shit go down. The picture’s pretty clear.”
I circle around to the other side of the island, peering over his shoulder at his screen, where three surprisingly crisp, black and white feeds show the exterior of a grungy warehouse, the mostly empty interior from a wide angle, and a closer shot of a folding table with a gym bag and a couple cans of Mutant Fuel energy sitting on top.
I grunt. “Looks legit.”
“That’s the idea.” Stone grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the counter and comes to stand on Justin’s other side. “We wanted it to feel a little sketchy, but not so sketchy that Garcia would bail.” He snorts. “Turns out Mr. Tough Guy is from some sweet farm town in Idaho. Poor pumpkin has probably never seen the bad part of a big city up close.”
“And there’s Dan,” Cruise adds, pointing at the figure who paces into frame near the table with a chuckle. “I think he’s gunning for an Oscar. He’s been down there getting into character for two hours. He drank so many energy drinks he had to go christen the side of the building.”
The guy looks the part—beanie pulled low, tattoos visible on his forearms, checking his watch with a bored expression like he can’t be bothered to give a shit about anything, but still has places to be. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was the real deal. And I’m a guy who grew up in the bad part of a big city, where watching a drug deal go down was as common as going to the playground.
Hell, a lot of times they happened at the playground…
“He looks good,” I say, my nerves ratcheting up as the clock ticks closer to showtime. “I would never guess he was a film school kid.”
“Kid?” Stephanie echoes, sitting up straighter in her stool on the other side of the island. “He isn’t actually a kid, is he? You never said if he was a freshman or?—”
“Grad student,” Stone assures her. “He’s getting his masters in film production.” He motions back to the screen. “He’s not a bad writer, either. He sent me a script of the kind of things he’s going to say to Garcia. It all sounded good. Really natural, too.”
“Fingers crossed Garcia will think so,” Steph says, twining two fingers in the air before returning to her quinoa. She glances up at me, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Are you going to eat something, Grunty?”
I exhale. “I should. I will.” I rest a hand on my midsection. “My stomach’s just more freaked out by all this than I expected.”
“Popcorn,” Stone says, pushing the bowl my way. “Start there. Small pieces, low commitment. No one should have to chew a huge hunk of poorly cooked carrot at a time like this. No offense, Steph.”
Steph grins “It’s a sweet potato actually, and it’s delicious. And no offense taken.” She extends her arm, wiggling her fingers toward Cruise. “Here, scootch the laptop over. The remote control, too. I’ll get us set up on the big screen. I have to do this kind of thing all the time when I teach at conferences or festivals.”
Cruise sags with relief as he pushes his computer her way. “Thank God. Libby always does this stuff at home. Kindergarten teachers know their shit when it comes to A/V setup.” Once Steph is on the case, he sits back in his stool, stretching his arms overhead with a groan. “Damn, I’m sore. What a first fucking week, huh? I’m going to have to do an ice plunge before bed if I don’t want to wake up crying into my pillow like a baby.”
“Beer also helps,” Stone says. “I have pale ale or hard cider. What’s everyone drinking?”
Justin and I both request a beer. Steph says, “Hard cider, please,” before turning to click the remote at the giant T.V. In just a few more clicks, she has Justin’s desktop mirrored on the big screen.
We pop our beers, toast her brilliance, and then…settle in to wait.
The next fifteen minutes are excruciating. I can’t sit still, alternating between pacing behind the couch and staring at the feeds, as if I can make Garcia appear through sheer force of will. I force myself to shove a few bites of dinner into my mouth in the name of giving my exhausted body fuel, but I’m too keyed up to actually feel hunger.
So keyed up, I nearly jump out of my skin when Cruise shouts. “There! Douche snozzle’s car just pulled up outside.”
We all turn to the screen, watching as Garcia emerges from his sleek black BMW.
“Get comfortable, boys and girl,” Stone says, sinking onto the couch. “It’s showtime.”
Garcia glances around the exterior of the warehouse, scanning the area in all directions, twitchy and tense, like he’s expecting to be jumped. It takes a good five minutes for him to make his way to the door, which he pushes open with equally jumpy energy, sticking only his head inside.
Thankfully Dan seems prepared to play it cool.
“S’up,” he says, giving Garcia a chin lift of acknowledgment as he finally steps fully into the space. “You Garcia?”
Thanks to the mic he’s wearing, Dan’s voice is crisp and clear. Garcia’s, “Yeah. You Dan?” is fainter, a little tinny, but still easy to make out.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders to release some of the tension that’s crept them closer to my ears. First hurdle cleared. The tech is working. Assuming Garcia implicates himself in something sketchy, we’ll have the evidence on lock.
“Yep.” Dan leans against the table, oozing “I own these mean streets” confidence. He arches a brow. “Heard you were looking for some information about one of my clients?”
Garcia looks around once more before stepping closer. “Yeah. Pro hockey player. Big guy, dark hair, last name LiBassi, but goes by Tank. Pill head, but could be into other stuff, I don’t really know. I sent a picture of him to your friend.”
My fists clench at my sides as I stand ramrod straight behind the couch, fresh anger surging through me all over again, even though I knew this was coming. This fucker is just the fucking worst.
Steph rests a gentle hand on my back, a silent reminder to breathe, and that she’s here. I’m not alone. I reach for her hand, grateful for the anchoring feel of her fingers threading through mine as we watch Dan take a leisurely sip of his energy drink, letting the suspense build before he answers. “Yeah. I might be familiar. If I were, what would you want to know? More importantly, how much are you willing to pay for the information?”
“I’d be willing to let you name your price,” Garcia says, gaining confidence. A hint of his usual cockiness creeps into his voice as he adds, “But only if you bring me hard evidence. I’d need you to film him paying you for drugs. Or at least get it on audio or something.”
“Oh, the irony,” Justin mutters, “it burns us…”
“It really does,” Steph whispers, shaking her head. “Who knew hockey players were so devious?”
“Hush,” Stone says, leaning in. “We’re close, people. I can feel it.”
Dan laughs, a harsh burst of sound that echoes in the empty warehouse. “Well, then I can’t fucking help you, dude.”
Garcia frowns. “Why? You wouldn’t have to show your own face. You could blur it out or film it so you’re not in the frame or whatever.”
“Nope.” Dan shrugs. “I don’t sell to that guy. Or any NHL players for that matter.”
“But your friend said that you said sold to pro athletes all the time.”
“I lied,” Dan says, draining his energy drink before crushing the can in one strong hand. “Saying I sell pills to pro-athletes gives me legitimacy. Makes me the kind of thug you can trust to get you shit that isn’t laced with garbage that’s going to kill you. But I don’t actually sell to any.” He turns to throw the can, but pauses, glancing over his shoulder at the last minute. “I mean, unless you’re looking to score. My supply is as clean as they come, man. Whatever you need to take the edge off, I?—”
“No, I don’t want drugs,” Garcia cuts in, scowling hard enough that his eyes are in shadow. “You’re serious? For real? Did your friend show you the picture I sent?”
Dan pitches the can, making Garcia flinch slightly as it skitters across the floor, into the corner. “Sure did.” Dan ambles back toward the table. “But I’ve never met that guy. Or, I don’t think I have…” He rests a hand on the duffle bag. “Though I guess you could convince me different. If you really wanted to.”
Garcia’s expression shifts, calculation replacing confusion. “What do you mean?”
Dan’s lips curve in a hard smile. “I mean I could say I know him. I could even say I sell him pills on the regular. Hell, for the right price, I’ll say he gave me a blow job for coke and begged me to take his ass in that corner over there.”
Steph’s head rears back beside me with a soft, “ew.”
“Told you he was good,” Stone says, taking another tense pull on his beer.
“He’s going to go for it,” Cruise whispers, knee jogging with an anxiety I feel echoed in every whip-tight muscle in my body. “This is it. Just take the bait you shitty little shit fuck.”
Garcia shifts his weight, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’d have to come to a meeting. Like, at the stadium, with the coach and whatever staff members they want there to hear your story. And you’d have to be convincing. If we don’t have video, it’s on you to sell it.”
“I can sell it,” Dan says without hesitation. “For two grand. Cash. Half now, half when it’s done.”
Garcia props his hands on his hips and all of us lean toward the screen, tension crackling through the room as we hold our collective breath. Part of me still doesn’t believe Garcia will actually go through with it—that even he has limits to how low he’ll sink.
And to how stupid he is.
After all, without a positive drug test, even an alleged “eye witness” to my illegal drug use isn’t going to get him anywhere. It’ll still be one person’s word against the other, and everything from a blood test to a piss test to hair analysis is going to come back clean.
Either he really thinks I’m using and this gamble is going to pay off, or he’s dumber than I thought.
But then…he pulls out his wallet. “I’ve only got five hundred on me. So, five hundred now, and the rest after? I’m good for it.”
Dan nods. “Sure. You’ve got a trustworthy face.” He smiles. “And if you try to fuck me over, it’s not like I don’t know where you work.”
Garcia exhales a rough laugh as he starts laying bills on the table. “Yeah. Sure. But like I said, I’m good for it. I promise.”
Stone fist-pumps the air with a victorious roar, while Justin points a finger at the screen, shouting, “Boom, Garcia. You just fucked yourself, asshole.”
I curse beneath my breath, not realizing I’m shaking until Steph squeezes my hand as asks, “You okay?”
I nod, but before I can speak, Garcia adds, “Here’s our assistant GM’s card. Just call, ask for Jim Hartley, and tell him you’ve got info on one of his players. You can say you’re coming forward because you love the Badgers and don’t want them to have a shit season because of some druggie on their roster. Tell him you’ve been selling to LiBassi for weeks, but he’s really been hitting it hard since camp started. You could even say you’re worried about him overdosing or something and that’s part of it.”
“Because I’m a dealer, but not a monster,” Dan says with a laugh.
“Yeah,” Garcia says, joining in.
Dan lifts a hand in the air between them. “Cool, bro, I got you. Good doing business with you. I’ll get it done, and we’ll meet back here for the second payment next week.”
Garcia clasps the guy’s hand like they’re old friends. “Sweet. Sounds good. Appreciate the help, man. Catch you later.”
“What in the gluten-free, deep-fried fuck is wrong with this dipshit?” Justin mutters, shaking his head. “I hate this guy.”
“I do, too,” Steph seethes beside me. “And I try really, really hard not to hate people for personal, professional, and karmic reasons. But this guy…”
“He can get all the way fucked,” Stone says.
“With a rusty crow bar,” I agree as Garcia, apparently satisfied with the amount of life-wrecking he’s put in motion for the evening, heads for the exit. “With no lube.”
“Not even a dollop of lube,” Steph adds.
As soon as the door closes behind him, Dan turns to one of the hidden cameras and shoot us a triumphant thumbs up.
That’s when the reality of it all finally hits, I guess, because suddenly the apartment erupts in cheers and laughter.
“Yass! In the bag, baby,” Cruise shouts, surging off the couch with his arms in the air. Stone leaps to his feet, too, grabbing Cruise in a bear hug as they jump around like they just won the Stanley Cup. I turn to Steph, hugging her tight and spinning around until she’s giggling so hard that I start laughing, too.
Laughing and kissing her and then apologizing for making her dizzy as I set her down to high five Cruise and Stone…
Finally, Cruise holds his hands up in the air, quieting the celebration. “All right. Let’s talk next steps. So, I say Stone and I take this to Coach first thing tomorrow morning. There’s a staff meeting tomorrow at ten. We can get there at say…nine? And get to Lauder first? Just to be safe?”
“Lauder? Not management?” Steph asks.
“Lauder first,” Stone confirms. “He doesn’t have Hartley’s baggage or history with the whole addiction thing. He’ll be more likely to look at the footage with an open mind. And honestly, I say he’s been wanting a reason to pick you over Garcia anyway, Tank. He’s just been waiting until he had enough ammunition to push back on Hartley.”
“Yeah? What makes you say that?” I ask, thinking of Lauder’s cryptic comment after practice.
“Vibes, man,” Cruise says. “And Lauder’s a hard ass, not a dumbass. He knows talent when he sees it, and you’ve been outplaying that shit weasel all week.” He shrugs. “But politics are politics. Lucky for us this…” He holds up his now closed laptop like it’s the Holy Grail, “trumps politics.”
“What about Hartley?” Steph asks. “Won’t he be pissed when he finds out?”
“Let him be,” Stone says dismissively. “Once Lauder sees this, it won’t matter what Hartley wants. There’s no way any of them can justify making Garcia starter now.”
“I’d honestly be shocked if he still has a job at all,” Cruise says. “He just violated his morality clause in like…ten different ways. I’m guessing he’ll be gone by Monday, and they’ll be pulling a goaltender from the feeder league to play second string.”
The gravity of it hits me all at once.
This is it. It’s really over. Gracia is gone and my position is secure.
Looks like this comeback is going to happen, after all.
“Fuck,” I say, with a huff of laughter. “I can’t remember the last time I was this relieved.”
The tension breaks, and suddenly we’re all sagging back onto the couch as Stone flicks on the evening news, and Justin calls to check in with his wife. Eventually, Stone opens more beers, I finish my meal—suddenly starving—and the conversation shifts to lighter topics: Cruise’s baby’s new tooth, Stone’s ongoing quest to find the best brunch in Portland, next week’s preseason schedule.
Normal stuff. Friend stuff. Hockey player stuff.
The kind of relaxed, team-building night in that I wasn’t sure I’d get a chance to be a part of if Garcia had his way.
And I’m more grateful for it than ever.