Chapter 8 #2
Rogue took a chair by Tuttle and Petey, the only other humans on the team.
They gave Rogue questioning and hopeful looks.
Rogue gave them a small shake of his head.
Hmmm, Sean thought. Were Rogue, Tuttle, and Petey the “we” Rogue had been referring to at the bodega? That seemed highly plausible. He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him right away. The three of them were inseparable.
“Over here,” Lukas said, flipping the back of his hand against Sean’s arm.
Sean followed him to the two empty chairs behind Bjorn and the other goalies.
Coach Erikson strode in from a door down front and on the left. “Good evening, fellas. This will be a quick one tonight.”
He turned off the lights, then with another tap on a remote control, the film from the Sacramento Screamers game came up on the screen. It began with the Spriggans’ starting line, and Sean leaned forward, elbows to knees.
“In practice,” Coach said, “we’ve been working on speed, keeping things moving, especially during a power play.
This, here,” he froze the screen for a second, “was a great shift, executing exactly what we hoped to see. Even though we didn’t capitalize on the advantage, you guys created some great opportunities. ”
He hit play again, and the film showed Sean tearing up the ice, then making a sharp pass to Rafe, who barely had it on his stick before shooting it to Will “Q” Quesenberry, a selkie and the team’s veteran center.
Q took the shot and missed, but it was definitely fast.
Coach then jumped to a different play. “Here’s an example of where we lost momentum.”
It was a play featuring Tuttle, who took off fast, then hesitated just after crossing the blue line. Though he eventually got the play back on track, his hesitation lost precious seconds that could have made a difference.
This was not a matter of Tuttle being human. Tuttle, Rogue, and Petey had all retained their positions—despite berserkers, shifters, and fae having assumed the majority of the roster—because they were talented. Strong. Fast. And skilled.
It seemed, to Sean, that Tuttle’s athletic performance hadn’t suffered from his humanity. Rather, it looked like a break in confidence.
Sean glanced over and down a row at Tuttle. He couldn’t see his face, but his posture didn’t read like he was embarrassed by the callout, which was good. It meant he was there to learn and improve, not to get his ego stroked.
In fact, Tuttle, Rogue, and Petey all held themselves in similar postures: backs stiff, eyes straight ahead. No whispering or side comments. They didn’t even look like they were sitting among friends.
It brought Sean’s thoughts right back to that bodega.
You need to remind Junior we did our part. It’s time for him to do his.
What was their part? A new possibility sent an icy chill down his arms. Had one of his teammates delivered the bag to Kiera? Was that their part in this?
No. That couldn’t be it. For one, if that money had been destined for Rogue, it would have been in his hands already. What would have been the point of delivering it to Kiera only to have her hand it back?
And besides that, why on earth would Braden Jones be contacting professional hockey players—from prison—to do his dirty work? It didn’t make sense.
Then again, stranger things had happened. And inmate phone calls were recorded. If Rogue, Tuttle, and Petey were involved, there’d be evidence of Braden calling at least one of them.
Sean tapped his fingers against his thigh. He didn’t know anyone in law enforcement, but didn’t Q have a friend who worked in the MPD? Sean would have to ask. Maybe Q’s friend would be willing to pull a few strings and call in a favor.
This would have all been a lot simpler if Sean had paid better attention when he’d opened Kiera’s door that night. He might have caught a glimpse of the delivery man.
Too bad he wasn’t a hell hound or a berserker. Rafe, Bjorn, or Lukas could have detected a scent and been able to follow it. Now, that bag was in the wind and there was no more scent to pick up.
Or was there? He glanced over at Lukas, contemplating…
“Murph?” Coach asked.
Sean jolted out of his thoughts. “Coach?”
Coach’s eyebrows drew together, and when Sean looked up at the screen, he realized they’d moved on from last week’s game film to the scouting films for tomorrow’s game against the Richmond RedCaps.
“Sorry,” Sean said. “What did you say?”
Lukas shifted restlessly in the chair next to him, probably experiencing vicarious discomfort. Guilt by proximity.
“I asked,” Coach said, “if you noticed any significant difference between the RedCaps’ number four and number nine in their ability to get rid of the puck?”
“Oh.” Sean’s gaze slid back up to the screen.
“Anyone else?” Coach asked impatiently.
A hand went up, and Sean glanced down the next row to Q. His bald head shone under the fluorescent lights like polished ebony.
“Yeah, Q?” Coach asked.
“Ninety percent of the time, Four will dump it,” Will replied. “But Nine likes to hang onto it nearly all the way to the net.”
“Watch for that,” Coach said. “With both of them. You can use that knowledge to your advantage. Now. Moving on to a more sensitive topic. Especially what happened with Oscar Livingston last year.”
Livingston was a veteran player from the San Antonio Chimeras. He’d been banned from the league for doping.
“We stand a real chance at making the playoffs this year, and I know we’re all hoping for even more: to finally see the Stanley Cup, here, at our barn.
“But that won’t happen if any one of us jeopardizes those efforts with any bad off-ice behaviors. For some of you veterans, it’s been a few years since you signed and acknowledged the Savage League’s Code of Conduct, so Mr. O’Rourke has asked that I give you all a refresher.”
For the first time since the meeting had started, Rogue moved. It was just a small thing. A flinch of a shoulder. But Sean narrowed his eyes on that movement because it confessed discomfort and said even more to him than anything Rogue had said earlier that day.
Coach flipped open a folder and began reading.
“No performance enhancing drugs, hormones, or supplements. You are all subject to random checks. No participation in so-called “fantasy” leagues dependent on the results of individual Savage League players or teams. No engaging in criminal activity, including but not limited to driving under the influence or public brawling. And finally, no conduct that would reflect poorly on the reputation of the League.”
Coach looked up. “That’s it. I know that last one is vague, but use your best judgment and be smart.”
Rogue and Tuttle exchanged an anxious look, and that was enough for Sean. Maybe he wasn’t law enforcement or a P.I., but he was getting to the bottom of things before Kiera could get caught in the crossfire. Again.