Chapter 9
Watch Out for the Zamboni Drivers
Hey, when you have a sec, can you check to see if my license is in your car? I haven’t seen it since Friday, I text Mark. It’s Monday morning, and I know my license is in his car because I shoved it between the seat and the center console during our date on Friday.
For a while my message shows as unread. It’s a bit after eleven, and tomorrow is the team’s first real game of the season.
I guess there are some preseason games that don’t count for anything because when I asked Mark yesterday how he was feeling about tomorrow’s game, he mentioned something about those matches going well.
He didn’t supply any additional details, and I didn’t ask any follow-up questions.
He should be at their training facilities now though, which is why I’m texting.
About forty minutes later, my phone buzzes, and the responding message from Mark reads, Yes, I found it. Want to get dinner later? I can bring it with me
Any chance I could come pick it up in twenty or thirty minutes and take a rain check on dinner? Maybe for Wednesday? I’m headed to Walla Walla tonight and visiting my dad tomorrow
Sure, that works. And yes on Wednesday
Okay. Where should I meet you? I send back.
He drops a pin to what must be some kind of employee lot and replies with instructions to tell the guard that my name is on the visitors’ list when I arrive.
Damn. How am I going to get around that?
I wonder as I sit in my car, staring at Mark’s message.
I can’t park in the employee lot. My car will end up sitting there all night long.
It’ll be incredibly obvious. Mark will see it whenever he leaves the building and wonder why it’s still there.
There will be security footage of it parked in an empty lot with me nowhere to be seen.
When they start looking at Joey Carmichael’s death as a homicide, which they definitely will because that is rather the point, it’ll make me an obvious suspect.
I consider parking on the street near the arena and walking to the location where Mark said he’d meet me, but that would force me to leave my car on the street overnight and I’d either end up with parking tickets plastered to my windshield in the best case scenario, or with my car impounded in a tow lot in the worst case.
I run through different ideas about what I could tell Mark to explain why I’m showing up on foot, and the best idea I can come up with isn’t very good, but hopefully it’s good enough.
Maybe he’ll be too distracted by whatever preparation is required for the season’s first game to give it much thought.
I order an Uber and hope for the best. When it arrives, I grab my shoulder bag, which is stuffed with necessities, and climb in, shutting my phone off as I do.
“Are you a hockey fan?” the driver asks enthusiastically upon realizing Tofana Arena is my destination.
“No,” I reply shortly, hoping to end the conversation.
He doesn’t take the hint, though. “Oh. Well, Tofana Arena is where the Black Bears play. They’re our hockey team,” he supplies helpfully. “Tomorrow is their season opener.”
“That’s nice,” I answer, looking out the window, taking a mental inventory of what’s in my bag for approximately the fiftieth time.
Multiple pairs of latex gloves, a baseball cap, goggles, an N95 surgical mask, a respirator, a snap gun for picking locks, a portable door security bar, a roll of tape, several sheets of blank printer paper, a Sharpie, the book I got about the Delta Blues, a water bottle, a couple of granola bars, a black plastic poncho, a penlight, and of course a bottle filled with capsules of sodium cyanide.
It’s the world’s most random assortment of items, all carefully chosen.
I shouldn’t need anything else, but I also don’t know what the non-public areas of the arena are like.
I wonder if I should’ve brought some rope.
I have no idea what I’d need it for, but they always find a use for it in the movies.
I make the effort to stop my mind from spiraling. I know it’s just nerves making me second-guess my planning, and I know it’s going to be worse once I’m sitting there, unmoving, for hours.
“Can you go around to West Basin Avenue?” I ask the driver, and he nods. “You can stop here,” I say when the guard station comes into view. “Thanks.”
I get out of the car and approach the small building.
The guard is seated at a desk inside, flipping through a magazine, and he doesn’t notice me standing in front of his sliding glass window.
I tap on it, and he jumps. “Hey,” I greet after he sets the magazine down and slides the window open.
“I’m Alyssa Reed. Mark Eriksson said you should have my name on a list.”
He pulls a clipboard from the wall and scans it. “You have ID?” he questions, seeming to find my name on his list.
“No. Sorry.”
He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s clear he wants to.
“Wait here,” he orders with an exasperated huff, sliding the window closed and picking up a phone.
A couple of minutes pass, then he opens the window again and says, “You can go through. Head down to the first level, then go left until you see the door. Wait there. Someone will meet you.” The window closes.
Apparently he’s fulfilled his duty and Popular Mechanics is calling.
I go down the ramp to the underground lot on foot.
It’s surprisingly well-lit and doesn’t smell of damp or garbage at all.
Briefly, I wonder how much money the hockey team brings in.
This arena is fairly new, with construction having finished five years ago when the city decided it needed a hockey team, and the however many millions or billions of dollars it took to build was the cost of bringing a franchise to Portland.
I’m not sure why any city needs any sports team, but there must be projected financials online from the city planning and zoning meetings where they convinced the comptroller and whatever other officials to allocate tax money to it.
Mark is already waiting at the door by the time I find it.
His face breaks into a grin, and my own face matches his.
He wanted to get together yesterday, but I begged off, telling him I had some family commitments.
I didn’t, but after my conversation with Vaughn, my conscience was screaming at me.
Much to my surprise, I actually like Mark.
But I’m not Vaughn, and Mark’s not Marjorie, and I don’t see a happily ever after for the two of us.
“Hey, Terrance said you walked in?” he says when I’m close enough he doesn’t have to shout.
“Yeah. My car is at the mechanic’s right now getting an oil change before I head to Walla Walla. I didn’t have time to wait for that or to come here after work, though, so I took an Uber.”
“Ah,” Mark murmurs once I’m close enough he can take my hands.
I push my bag out of the way as he tugs me toward him.
Once our bodies are pressed together, he releases one of my hands, weaving his into my hair instead and bringing his face to mine.
When my tongue slides over his, I can taste the coffee he’s been drinking, and a small groan escapes from my mouth into his.
Mark pivots us until my back is pressing into the cool concrete of the parking structure, pinning me there with his body.
Part of me knows I should be smart and break this off, but I’m pretty sure the knowledge that anyone could come into the parking garage at any second is a turn-on for him, and I think he might be blowing off steam.
Even though he said things are going well, I’m sure he must still be nervous.
Tomorrow will be his first game as head coach—which would be enough to make anyone nervous—and, although he doesn’t know it, I’m going to destroy it.
I feel fucking awful, and I’m probably also using this to salve my conscience, which is all kinds of screwed up and isn’t actually working.
Nevertheless, kissing him feels good enough that I don’t want to stop.
I slide my hands under his shirt as I nip at his bottom lip, and his hips press into mine harder as a deep rumble moves through his chest.
Finally, I force myself to push him away.
“We should stop,” I say raggedly, watching the pulse jumping in his neck, even though I don’t want to stop at all.
What I want is to press my lips to his neck and roll my tongue across it at the same time I drop my hand to stroke him until he’s coming in my palm. I push the thought away.
“Do you really want to stop?” he asks, sounding just as ragged when I meet his eyes.
“No, but neither of us has time for this right now.”
“We could make time,” Mark suggests, his fingertips tracing along my jaw, pushing a lock of hair back from my face.
I shake my head. “I really can’t. I have patients to see before I leave this afternoon.”
“Alright. Here,” Mark says, pulling my license from his pocket. “It was wedged between the seats.”
“Thanks for finding it, and sorry for disrupting your day,” I reply as I take it from him, shove it into my pocket, and make a show of checking my phone. “My return Uber is still fifteen minutes away. Want to give me a tour?”
“You want to see where I work?”
I shrug. “Sure. Why not? Then on Wednesday, I can give you a tour of my office. It’s much smaller, though there is a couch.”
“A couch?” Mark asks, his eyebrows rising.
“Mhmm.”
“You know I’m going to be thinking about that couch for the next two days.”
“Wondering what color it is?” I tease.
“Something like that,” Mark mutters. “Well, come on, then. I’ll show you around.” He holds a badge up to the card reader next to the door, and the door unlocks.
Step one—access to the building—complete, I think.