12. Griffin
GRIFFIN
T he fact that I’ve been in the team gym for over four hours, doing every single workout possible, proves that, apparently, I have decided that physical pain is preferable to thinking about…her.
Pretending with every grueling rep that Anika isn’t making plans with Thomas right now.
I heave the barbell up for what has to be my fiftieth rep, muscles quivering until I’m pretty sure my arms are about to fall off.
“Just ten more,” I mutter to myself, ignoring the burning sensation in my biceps that suggests I should’ve stopped twenty reps ago.
The thing about crushing on a woman while simultaneously helping her win over some other guy? It’s a special kind of self-inflicted torture that no amount of endorphins can fix. Yet here I am, bench pressing my feelings away like the world’s most pathetic loser who’s been friend-zoned.
With every painful set, all I can think is that she’s only using me to prepare for this Thomas guy. Meanwhile, she has me falling for her so hard that the physical strain of heavy lifting is actually a relief.
A few teammates grunt their encouragement and throw me what looks like concern from the corners of their eyes, so I step it up even more.
Thomas, you lucky jerk, are going to reap all the benefits of my handiwork, and it’s driving me mental.
I collapse back onto the bench after my final rep, staring at the ceiling. Every flirting lesson I gave her, every conversation tip I suggested, every single thing I taught Anika about the art of dating. It’s all just Thomas prep work.
Thomas. Even his name sounds smug. I bet he does CrossFit and drinks protein shakes made from endangered plants.
Thomas, with his stupid perfect hair and his stupid perfect job. Thomas, who gets to be on the receiving end of Anika’s actual interest, while I’m relegated to the role of dating coach.
Now all I can think about is his hands all over her.
I grab my towel and wipe the sweat from my face, wondering if I could somehow use it to also wipe away my feelings. No such luck.
On to the treadmill. Maybe if I run fast enough, I can outpace my own thoughts. I crank the speed to just shy of death wish and start pounding away.
“She’s using you as a practice boyfriend,” I pant between strides. “Get. It. Through. Your. Thick. Skull.”
Each footfall hammers the point home. Anika sees me as safe. Convenient. The human equivalent of those plastic food displays in restaurant windows. All the appearance of the real thing with none of the substance.
And the worst part? I volunteered for this position. Practically begged for it.
The treadmill beeps angrily as my pace falters, and I realize I’ve been so lost in my Anika-centered spiral that I’ve drifted dangerously close to the back of the belt. I correct my position and push harder, sweat dripping onto the console.
I’m about to die for a woman who isn’t even mine.
After three hours of sweating more from my own frustrations than from the weights and cardio, I finally give it a rest and collapse into a heap.
A shadow falls over me, blocking out the blinding gym light.
“Hallo, McGregor.”
I look up to see Dieter, our facilities manager, hovering near the weight rack with the expression of someone who’s just found a dead fish in their mailbox.
“Yeah?” I gasp, still trying to recover my breath and dignity simultaneously. Neither is going well.
“There are two men here to see you.”
I blink sweat out of my eyes. “Did I order something?”
“Don’t think so. They look…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Official.”
“Official?”
“In suits.”
Great. Men in suits never bring good news. They either want money or your signature on something legally binding.
“Tell them I’ll be right there,” I say, grabbing my towel and dabbing at the small lake of sweat I’ve created. “Just need a minute to…you know…splash some water on my face, throw on a clean shirt.
Dieter nods and disappears, leaving me to contemplate which transgression of mine has finally caught up with me.
That time I accidentally took two mints from the restaurant bowl?
The parking ticket I contested because the sign was in German and I swear “ Parkverbot ” could mean “party spot” to any reasonable English speaker?
Walking into the lobby, I spot them immediately. Two men in dark suits standing with perfect posture, scanning the room like they’re cataloging escape routes. They don’t look like fans, sponsors, or anyone who’d normally visit a hockey rink.
“Griffin McGregor?” the taller one asks, with the kind of severity that makes my last name sound like a war crime.
“That’s me,” I confirm, offering my hand and my most charming I-haven’t-done-anything-wrong smile. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“Agent Bruderlin, Federal Intelligence Service,” the tall one says, flashing a badge that indeed looks very federal and very serious. “And this is Agent Showalter.”
The shorter man nods curtly without offering his hand.
Very encouraging.
My mind launches into a greatest hits compilation of “Things Griffin Might Have Done Wrong”
1: My visa. It’s definitely my visa. Which is a ridiculous thought, because the team managers handled all that paperwork.
2: That time I accidentally wandered into a restricted area at the airport because I was looking for my lost luggage.
3: The Instagram photo where I’m posing with what I thought was a historic monument but might have been a military installation.
“Is there somewhere we could speak privately?” Bruderlin asks, his eyes sweeping the lobby as if the potted palms might be concealing hidden cameras.
“Uh, sure,” I manage, brain still cycling through worst-case scenarios. “There’s a meeting room just down the hall.”
I lead them to our team’s strategy room, which is thankfully empty.
The walls are plastered with training schedules and nutritional charts, and I suddenly feel like I’m in one of those movie scenes where the protagonist is about to learn he’s been unwittingly involved in an international espionage plot.
“Please, sit down,” I offer, gesturing to the chairs around the conference table. I take a seat across from them, trying not to look as nervous as I feel. “So…Federal Intelligence Service, huh? Is that like Immigration and Customs Enforcement? Because I’m pretty sure my work visa’s current.”
“Mr. McGregor, this isn’t about your visa,” Agent Bruderlin says with the kind of patience usually reserved for children or confused tourists.
“Oh. That’s…good?” My relief is short-lived as my brain scrambles to figure out what other trouble I could be in.
“The Federal Intelligence Service is more akin to Britain’s MI6 or America’s CIA,” Agent Showalter explains, his voice clipped and precise.
“So you’re like…spies?” The word tumbles out with embarrassing enthusiasm.
Well, this took a turn. I’m suddenly eight years old again, sitting cross-legged in front of our TV.
I’ve watched every James Bond film at least three times.
Okay, who am I kidding, more like ten times each.
I still have annual 007 marathons, complete with themed snacks and terrible attempts at a Sean Connery accent.
Both men stare at me blankly.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Please continue.”
Bruderlin opens a thin folder and slides a photograph across the table. “Are you familiar with this man?”
I look down at a high-resolution surveillance photo of Malcolm Chase exiting what looks like a luxury hotel.
“Malcolm Chase,” I say, my stomach dropping. “Yeah, I know him. He’s the owner of the Titans.”
“Mr. McGregor, we have reason to believe that Mr. Chase is conducting some highly questionable business activities here in Switzerland,” Bruderlin says.
“What kind of activities?” I ask, suddenly on high alert.
“Mr. Chase recently made a significant deposit into a Swiss bank account,” Showalter explains. “He seems to be operating under the outdated belief that Swiss banking secrecy laws will protect him.”
“They won’t?” I ask. I’ll never watch wire transfers in spy movies the same again.
“Not like they used to,” Bruderlin says. “Swiss banking secrecy has largely been dismantled in recent years. However, since Mr. Chase has maintained his accounts for many years, it creates certain…challenges for us.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “What does this have to do with me?”
“We’re aware of the so-called Titans stock that Mr. Chase convinced you and your teammates to invest in,” Showalter says.
My heart sinks, and my thoughts rush to that aggressive fan that attacked me a few weeks ago. And about the substantial chunk of my money currently sitting in Malcolm’s “guaranteed growth” investment fund.
Bruderlin’s expression tightens. “We have strong reason to believe it’s part of an elaborate Ponzi scheme. Our financial forensics team has traced funds moving through offshore shell companies that appear designed to obscure their origins and destinations.”
“Are you telling me our investments are gone?” I ask, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Bruderlin says.
I stare at the documents, but the numbers and diagrams swim before my eyes. This can’t be happening. “No.” I shake my head. “No, that can’t be right…”
My voice trails off as I remember the team dinner where Malcolm had jovially convinced half the roster to invest. How excited we all were about getting in on the ground floor of something big.
How I’d sunk most of my savings into those shares, dreaming of the security it would provide when my playing days were over.
“How much?” I ask, my voice shaky.
“Pardon?”
“How much has he stolen?”
Bruderlin’s face remains impassive. “We believe the total amount approaches eight hundred and fifty million euros, though the exact figure is still being calculated.”
Eight hundred and fifty million. That’s a whole lotta hockey sticks.