Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
"He's basically the whole franchise," Sam said, sliding a folder across her desk to Edie with the casual air of someone delivering gossip instead of official marketing materials.
"Captain, fan favorite, community ambassador.
The kids love him. The sponsors really love him.
We put his face on everything from cereal boxes to car dealerships. "
Edie flipped open the folder and was immediately confronted with approximately forty photographs of Tarmek Stonefist looking serious in various promotional contexts.
Tarmek holding a hockey stick with intensity.
Tarmek kneeling beside a youth hockey team with slightly less intensity.
Tarmek shaking hands with the mayor, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else on the planet.
"He seems thrilled about all of this," she said.
"Oh, he hates it. Absolutely loathes public appearances. But he does them anyway because he's pathologically responsible and the team needs the exposure." Sam grinned. "It's one of my favorite things about him, honestly. Watching him suffer through charity galas is better than television."
"That seems cruel."
"It's not cruel if I also make sure there's a plate of perfectly grilled steak waiting for him in the green room afterward.
Positive reinforcement." Sam tapped the folder.
"Anyway, I thought this might help with your mural research.
Team history, key moments, that kind of thing.
If you need more details, Tarmek's your guy.
He's been with the Enforcers longer than anyone except Makron and Coach Morrison. "
She looked down at the folder, then back up at Sam. "You want me to interview Tarmek."
"I want you to do whatever you need to do to make a great mural. If that involves bothering our captain, well." Sam's grin widened. "I've noticed he doesn't seem to mind being bothered by you."
He doesn't?
She gathered the folder and retreated to the corner of the arena's storage area that she'd claimed by as a temporary workspace to process this information.
She'd been in Greenwood Hollow for two weeks now.
Three weeks of painting and sketching and slowly falling in love with this weird little town and its hockey-obsessed population.
And two weeks of Tarmek.
The team dinner had changed something. She couldn't pinpoint exactly what or how, but ever since she'd stolen that bite of elk off his plate, she'd felt his attention fixed on her with an almost physical weight.
It didn't feel uncomfortable or threatening, just present.
He was always somewhere nearby, watching from the corner of his eye, and every time she caught him at it, he looked away first.
It was confusing and flattering and probably meant nothing.
She pulled out her phone and started a new note. Mural Research - Interview Questions. Then she stared at the blank screen for a solid five minutes, trying to figure out how to phrase "tell me about your feelings" in a way that a stoic orc hockey captain might actually answer.
She found him in the weight room at six in the morning, because apparently he existed on a different timeline than normal people. He was wearing nothing but shorts and a determined expression, the overhead lights highlighting the impressive musculature of his chest and arms.
She stopped in the doorway and appreciated the view for approximately seven seconds before remembering why she was there.
"Hey," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Got a minute?"
He was mid-lift, a barbell loaded with enough weight to make her spine hurt just looking at it hovering above his chest. His arms didn't waver. "No."
"Great, perfect." She walked in anyway, hopping up onto a nearby equipment bench and swinging her legs. "Sam says you're the franchise expert. I need to know about team history for the mural."
"Ask Sam."
"Sam said to ask you."
The barbell completed its arc and settled into the rack with a controlled clang.
She tried to focus on her notebook and her questions and definitely not the way his muscles moved under his skin.
He sat up, reaching for a towel, and fixed her with a look that probably intimidated opposing players but mostly just made her want to poke him.
"I'm busy."
"You're always busy. I checked your schedule.
You're also busy at seven, eight, nine, and ten.
Then you have a team meeting, then practice, then more practice, then film review.
Your only free time is between midnight and five AM, and I'm not nocturnal.
" She pulled out her phone and opened her notes. "So we're doing this now."
Something that might have been respect flickered across his face. Or possibly annoyance. With Tarmek, it was hard to tell.
"Fine," he said. "You have five minutes."
"Question one: when was the team founded?"
"2018."
"And you've been here since...?"
"2019."
"So you're one of the original players."
"Second season. Not original."
She waited for an elaboration, but none came and she sighed.
"Okay, let me try this differently. What's your favorite memory from playing with the Enforcers?"
He considered this for a long moment, toweling off his face with the same efficient movements he seemed to apply to everything. "2022 championship."
"What happened in the 2022 championship?"
"We won."
"Yes, I assumed that from the word 'championship.' Can you give me some details? Color? Emotion? Literally anything I could translate into visual imagery?"
His brow furrowed. "It was... good."
"'It was good.' That's your contribution. 'It was good.'"
"It was very good."
She buried her face in her hands and groaned. When she looked up again, he was watching her with an expression that was almost amused.
"You're doing this on purpose," she accused.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You absolutely do. You're being difficult because you think it's funny."
"I'm being efficient. You asked questions. I answered them."
"You answered them like a robot with a word count limit.
" She hopped off the bench and walked closer, close enough that she had to crane her neck to maintain eye contact.
This close, she could see the individual drops of sweat glistening on his biceps, the way his chest was still rising and falling from exertion, and the tiny scar that bisected his left eyebrow.
"What did it feel like, Tarmek? When you won?
When the final buzzer sounded and you knew you'd done it? "
Something shifted in his dark eyes. A tiny crack in the armor.
"Like everything made sense," he said quietly. "Like all the work, all the sacrifice, all the—" He stopped, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter."
"It does. That's exactly the kind of thing that matters for art." She reached out without thinking and touched his arm, a brief contact that made his muscle tense under her fingers. "The feeling. That's what I'm trying to capture. Not just 'team wins championship' but the meaning of it."
He looked down at her hand. She pulled it back, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. His musky scent surrounded her, earthy and distinctly male. a, how warm he was, how the weight room suddenly seemed very small and very quiet.
"You're strange," he said.
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"I'm choosing to take it as one anyway."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something adjacent to one. Something that made her stomach flip in a way she absolutely did not have time to analyze.
"Your five minutes are up," he said.
"Then I'll come back tomorrow." She retreated towards the door, walking backward so she could keep watching his reaction. "Same time. Bring coffee."
"I don't drink coffee."
"Bring me coffee. I'll be the one asking questions. I need fuel."
She was out the door before he could respond, but she was pretty sure she heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "impossible woman."
Progress.
The interviews became a routine. Every morning at six, she'd invade his workout and pepper him with questions until he grudgingly surrendered fragments of information.
She learned that the team colors of emerald and silver had been chosen by the original owner's daughter, who was seven at the time and thought green was "the prettiest." She learned that the arena had been built on the site of a former sawmill, and some of the beams in the rafters were salvaged from the original structure.
She learned that Tarmek had joined the Enforcers after a brief and apparently unhappy stint with a bigger team in Seattle, though he refused to discuss the circumstances.
She learned that when he talked about hockey, when he forgot to be guarded, his whole face transformed.
The stern lines softened. His eyes lit up with something that wasn't quite joy but was close enough to count.
He gestured with his hands, marking plays in the air, and his voice took on a rhythm that was almost musical.
He was passionate. Deeply, intensely passionate. He just kept it buried under about seventeen layers of stoic professionalism.
Challenge accepted.