31. Looks Like A Good Night For A Moral Epiphany #2
“Are we doing the good cop, bad cop thing?” I ask.
“What? No. We’re just going to ask him some quest—”
Buford’s door swings open, subjecting us to the lovely image of him in some sort of silk robe. His face is as smug as usual—completely unaware of the fact that his whole world is about to go belly-up—and I clench my fists tightly by my sides.
Man, it felt good to punch that fucker in the nose. And by the looks of it, the bone is still slightly crooked.
Buford ignores me, as expected. “It’s pretty late for a visit, don’t you think, Cap?”
Crew remains poised, civil, deploying what I like to call his “customer service” voice to feign that everything is fine. If we come in spewing accusations left and right, we might not get a confession out of Buford. We have to be strategic about this. We have to make him tell us.
Neither Crew nor I want to get Coach involved until we have undeniable proof.
“Yeah, sorry about that. We just wanted to talk to you about…potentially switching you to first line for the game tomorrow. Coach wanted me to pass the message along,” Crew lies.
Good thinking. That’s…somewhat believable. Definitely better than my approach, because I still haven’t buried the hatchet between us.
Buford scoffs, letting the door hang all the way open as he saunters over to the edge of his unkempt bed. “About time Coach saw my potential. I’m one of the best players on the goddamn team.”
“Not recently,” I cough into my fist, to which Crew elbows me hard in the stomach.
With Buford’s back turned to us, Crew gives me some kind of subtle signal to start checking the room for any evidence that could help us with our case. Stacks of money, a chart of wagers on some crumpled-up piece of paper.
Jesus Christ. We sound like some kind of amateur sleuths. I don’t know the first thing about being inconspicuous. I’m not even the one on the chopping block, and my breath is leaking out of me in short bursts as if there’s a pinhole in my chest.
I begin to stealthily scout every flat surface in the vicinity—suspiciously clean, I might add. Even his suitcase is still mostly packed. The place certainly isn’t lived in.
Crew blends into the dark shadows of the room, observing from afar like a vengeful vigilante looking to balance the scales.
He was born to be a leader. The difference between him and Buford is that Crew exercises discipline when he needs to.
He doesn’t brag about his accomplishments; he doesn’t minimize others’ skills.
Part of being a good hockey player is being able to cooperate with your teammates, and Buford is too conceited to let anyone else “steal” his limelight.
“You are. You’ve been playing a lot better during practices. Everyone has noticed. Your puck handling is top-notch,” Crew beguiles, eyes sweeping over the pristine floor.
Even though this is all a ruse to get to the nitty-gritty truth, I hate that we’re feeding this asshole’s ego. Luckily for me, Crew is my anxiety conduit, and he’s transforming all those inconvenient nerves into unquestionable confidence.
Do I want Buford to be guilty? Of course not, but the damage to my relationship with Lake has already been done. It doesn’t matter what the outcome is.
Buford plops down on the mattress to face us, manspreading, and I suddenly understand why women have a certain aversion to men. Talking to him is torture enough. I don’t need to stare at his dick print too.
“Might just be good enough to steal captain from you,” Buford jests, and I have to swallow the urge to laugh.
My gaze circles the room—pausing every now and then to peek into nooks and crannies—while Crew distracts Buford with all the ass-kissing in the world, luring him into a false sense of security.
My pulse thrashes, indignation practically hardwired into my brain the longer we overstay our welcome. I drown out the conversation taking place, growing more desperate as every square inch continues to come up empty.
I trust Lake. I know she saw something. I also know that Buford is careless, and he wouldn’t have had enough time to cover his tracks before we got here.
“Kind of strange Coach didn’t deliver the news himself,” Buford comments. “And why did you bring Whittaker? He your bodyguard now?”
My ears perk up, and I slowly turn toward the man helming this entire mission, fear sparking the kindling deep down in the depths of my belly. Crew gives me a chill out look.
“Coach is dealing with a personal matter at the moment. As for Sutton, we were hanging out before this, and he…wanted to apologize. You know, for breaking your nose.”
What. The. Ever-loving. Fuck.
“Dude,” I growl lowly, my voice not far off from a thunderclap.
I did not agree to this, and Buford doesn’t deserve an apology. In fact, what he deserves is a long walk off a short pier—into shark-infested waters.
Buford’s beady eyes magnetize on me, and there’s no way he’s going to let me get out of this until that sweet, sweet S-word hits the air and punishes me for what I thought was a very levelheaded decision. Considering the severity of his transgressions, he’s lucky I didn’t break his legs instead.
Crew potters around, glancing behind the dresser while I have Buford’s full attention. Resentment scoops my insides out like the shell of a spoon deseeding a bleeding pomegranate, and I paste on the fakest smile, reminding myself that I’m doing this for Lake.
“Yeah. I’m so sorry that you ran into my fist, Buford.”