Chapter 14 Carl
CARL
I’ve argued with referees, coaches, and one time a drunk Santa who skated onto the ice during a charity game, but I’ve never wanted to crawl through a phone and shake someone like I want to with the rink manager right now.
“The game doesn’t start for five hours,” I say, pacing a rut in the gravel shoulder. The wind cuts through my jacket. Behind me the RV sists on a blown tire like a wounded hippo. “We’re due to check in an hour before, as usual. We’ll be there.”
There’s a not-so-patient sigh on the other end. “Sorry, Coach. You’ve got it wrong. The start time is three hours from now, not five. Mandatory check-in is two hours before puck drop. Given your earlier bus trouble we were giving your club an extra hour, but that’s all we can do.”
I press a palm to my forehead. “The schedule I have says noon check-in, two p.m. start.”
“I’m not sure where you got that.” His voice turns clipped. “Doors open in ninety minutes. If your club is not checked in at least sixty minutes prior, you risk forfeit under league rule.”
I swallow. Forfeit?
We can’t afford to just hand over a game, especially right now. “Send me the info again.”
“I’ve sent it twice. Once last night. Once an hour ago. It’s on the league dashboard.”
I keep my voice level. “We lost cell service through a stretch. We’re not ignoring you.”
“I understand,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he does. “We’re doing what we can on our end. But I can’t move the clock.”
I hang up and stare at the empty road stretching between pale fields. Cold December air bites my lungs.
Somewhere far off, a dog barks. Our Ubers are little blue dots crawling across a map on my phone, still twenty-five minutes out, and even if they were teleporters it wouldn’t matter.
We’re over two hours from Hawkthorn on a good day, and today isn’t that.
I turn and catch Trisha and Ash in my periphery.
Ash stands at the rear wheel well with a wrench in his hand, talking low.
Trisha leans near him, hands tucked under her armpits for warmth, cheeks flushed pink from the wind.
They keep glancing at each other, those quick little looks like stolen passes, and when Trisha tips her head I get a clear view of her mouth.
Her lips are a little swollen.
My gaze focuses on the curve of color there and heat hits my chest in a tight, stupid punch.
She’s our PR. He’s team captain.
We’re stranded on the side of a county road with a game clock already running against us, and I know, without a doubt, that they’ve been kissing.
Later, I tell myself.
I’ll deal with it later.
“What do you mean, sabotaged?” I ask instead, stepping up to the blown tire.
The tread is chewed and the rim is filthy, but that’s not what Ash is showing me.
He angles the flashlight beam. “Here.” The light slides over a neat, clean slice at the base of the valve stem. “Someone shaved the stem with a razor blade and plugged it with a short piece of black rubber. Looked normal until the plug worked loose. That’s why we heard the slow hiss, then boom.”
My stomach drops. “You’re certain?”
“I’ve changed more tires than I’ve scored goals,” he says. “Road debris doesn’t do that. Also…” He points to the lug nuts on the neighboring wheel. “Two were finger-loose. You don’t get that by accident.”
Of all the ways I pictured today going, this wasn’t on the list. “Who the hell would do that?”
Ash only lifts a shoulder. “Someone who wanted us on the shoulder instead of at a morning skate.”
I stare at the app, then at the horizon, then back at the RV. “Cancel the Ubers,” I say, and it feels like eating metal. “Even if those cars get here on time, we still miss check-in. I’m not going to drain our budget to show up for a forfeit.”
Ash nods and starts tapping his phone. “Canceled.”
“We wait for the tire to be fixed, and then drive the rest of the way together,” I say. “If we’re late, we’re late. At least we’ll file as a team.”
Then to Trisha, “Can you meet me in the bus? Two minutes.”
“Sure,” she says, cautious now, maybe at my tone, maybe because she knows I noticed more than the tire.
She heads up the steps, boots clumping, ponytail twitching like a metronome.
When she’s out of earshot, I round on Ash. The wind flips his hair into his eyes and he shoves it back with the heel of his hand.
“What are you doing?” I keep my voice low, but there’s no mistaking the edge. “She’s our PR. We’re in a ditch on game day and you’re making out behind the bus?”
His jaw ticks. “Carl—”
“I’m not your dad,” I say. “I’m not your keeper. But I am trying to keep this team together, and that includes not turning our media plan into a soap opera. You know the rules about staff.”
“There aren’t rules about staff,” Ash argues. “There are guidelines you made so we wouldn’t implode. I respect that.”
“You respect that so much you smash mouths with our new hire? The woman who’s supposed to fix our reputation?”
Color rises up his neck and he presses his lips together, refusing to say anything.
The flash of fury that hits me is fast and stupid.
It’s jealousy, I know it, but that doesn’t mean I can control it.
“Listen. Whatever this is…” I wave my hand aimlessly. “Keep it off the bus and out of camera lenses.”
“I don’t even know what this is, but I’ll be discrete—if it happens again.”
My nod is more of a jerk of my head, then I head to the RV.
I climb the bus steps and the familiar smell of coffee, leather, and old tape wraps around me.
The engine is off, so the quiet feels thick.
Most of the guys are outside stretching legs or making calls in the cold.
Up front, the little dinette table sits with a stack of media passes fanned out like cards.
Trisha is there, her fingers moving fast on her laptop with her phone open beside it.
I slide into the seat across from her. “Hey.”
She looks up and frowns.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“A bit of everything.” I fold my hands in front of me so I don’t fidget.
“I just got off with the rink manager. According to him, the game starts in three hours, not five. Mandatory check-in is two hours before, but they were going to give us a grace window until one hour before because of our bus.” I pause. “We’re not making it.”
Her mouth parts, then closes. “We had noon as puck drop on the run sheet.”
I lean back and the vinyl covering the chair squeaks. Outside, laughter spikes as someone tells a joke that turns into a coughing fit. “He says they sent an updated advisory last night. Another this morning.”
She’s already searching her email. “I don’t have it.”
“Could be the clubhouse Wi-Fi hanging by a thread,” I say. “Could be we went through the dead patch and missed the push.”
“Or,” she says slowly, “could be someone didn’t send it to us on purpose.”
I watch her eyes as she thinks it through.
She blows out a breath and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Okay. I’ll draft two statements. One internal to the league and Hawkthorn with the timeline of events.
It will explain our car troubles, our location at the time of check-in, our attempts to get there.
I’ll ask for a reschedule under extraordinary circumstances.
The second will be a press release, but I won’t mention our concerns that it was sabotage, at least not until we have proof. ”
We work side by side for a few minutes. She drafts, I pull up the team email account and sort by sender.
She taps a few keys, then angles her screen so I can see the draft statement. Clean. Calm. No adding fuel on the fire. I nod. “That works.”
Her phone buzzes. She glances at the screen and grimaces. “My editor friend. He heard rumors already.”
“Of course he did.”
“I’ll stall.” She types.
I scroll through the team email, my fingers freezing when I see the notification.
It was sent last evening, when we were at the clubhouse, cramming protein and pasta, ignoring our phones. I click.
The message is short:
Coach,
Start time remains at 12:00 today. Please ensure check-in no later than 11:00.
— Operations, Hawkthorn Ice
I feel a wash of relief so strong it makes me light-headed. “Wait,” I say. “Here. This is what I saw. Noon start, eleven check-in. That’s what I told the guys.”
“Forward it to me,” Trisha says, already opening her inbox. I send it and slide my laptop over so she can read off my screen too.”
Her eyes flick across the screen. She pauses, goes back, and leans in. “Carl.”
“What?”
She points to the header. “Look at the address.”
I squint. At first glance it looks right. But something is off by a hair. Trisha leans forward and points to the email.
“Look at the address,” she says, her tastefully painted fingernail pointing just under the address. “This has @hakthronice. It should be from @hawkthornice. The address is missing the ‘W’.”
I lean in and squint at the screen, as if that will help. “Shit,” I snarl. “Someone spoofed Hawkthorn’s address.”
Trisha nods, mouth set. “And sent you a time that would make us late.”