Penalty Kill

by Genevive Chamblee

  But on a night that mattered most, all was lost. He’d gone from perched on a sectional to sprawled across his bathroom floor in his boxers until the pounding on the front door roused him. He’d listened to the officers’ words about the incident, but it all seemed unreal—having comprehension but no understanding. They were a string of words with no meaning.

  Yet they did have meaning. People had died. Not great people. Not even good people on their best days. People he’d not spoken a civil word with in twelve years. However, they were his people. His parents were dead.

  “Oh, Mama,” he whispered.

  2

  Ryker

  “How dare you try to poach my client,” Lesley hissed. “And you pissed him off.”

  Ryker tapped his foot as he waited for the elevator doors to open. “You’re in over your head, and he was already pissed off. I heard him yelling the minute I stepped off the elevator. But who can blame him? He just lost his folks. It’s understandable that he’d be feeling some kind of way. He’s going through stuff. He probably could use a friend.”

  “We’re agents. He’s a client. Boundaries. There’s no room for friendship.”

  There’s always room for friendship. “That’s pretty cold. I thought women were supposed to be the feeling types.”

  “Let me explain something.” She pointed at Ryker’s face. “The sports industry is no longer a man’s world. If you haven’t figured it out, women can play equally as hard if not harder.”

  “Ah, Lesley, don’t make this some feminist issue that it isn’t.”

  “The hell it’s not. You—”

  “Came to help.”

  “Stuck your nose in to gain clout and because you didn’t think a girl could do the job.” She shook her head. “You’re the same as all the others.”

  Okay, maybe he did see an opportunity to hike a leg up, but he’d never do anything to hurt Lesley. Besides, this was Timothée Croneau, a hockey great and sexy as hell with eyes that could melt a full-fledged man into a puddle. How could Ryker not insert himself? The man oozed luxury and fame—inarguably, usually the wrong sort of fame. Infamous came to mind. Timothée’s temper and foul disposition were legendary, but no doubt Lesley could handle it.

  “I know you’re talented. Everyone knows it. I would never try to steal a client from you, not that I could if I wanted. You’d eat me alive and use my bones for toothpicks.”

  “Then explain why you’re here.”

  And there it was—the faint waver in her voice that he knew meant she was close to tears but would never allow herself to cry. The lines in his face softened. “Having someone help isn’t a sign of weakness. On the contrary, it displays highly evolved cognitive collective stupendousness. Why else do the best strategists in the world work in teams? Besides, don’t you have your hands full with Bolton Callaghan, who needs all your attention? I mean, he did set his hotel room on fire with a military-issued flamethrower on the eve of renegotiating his contract. He’s jumped ship with agents before who didn’t coddle him. Divide and conquer. I’ll be easing the load.”

  “Cognitive collective stupendousness?”

  “Do you have a better word for it?”

  She shook her head and cast her gaze downward. “You’re such a nerd.”

  “Yeah.” Ryker smirked. “Let me help. I promise not to get in your way.”

  Contemplating, Lesley shrugged. “Okay, but I’m in charge.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’ll do everything I say without arguing.”

  Ryker bit his lower lip and hesitantly nodded. He’d try, but knowing Lesley the way he did, not arguing with her would be a doozy. They clashed on most things. However, he knew if he didn’t agree, and quickly, she’d tell him to shove off. Plus, she did have seniority—nine years compared to Ryker’s eighteen months. And she’d landed Timothée out of a dozen other agents who’d fought to acquire him. Truth be told, an athlete like Timothée Croneau was out of Ryker’s league, and he knew this. Besides, if he didn’t make this deal with Lesley now, his goose would be cooked once she realized Edgar really hadn’t sent him.

  “Fine.” He extended his hand. “Shake on it.”

  Lesley grasped his hand as firm as any man and shook. She was no pushover, and Ryker respected that. Yes, his actions were slightly deceiving, but she’d said it herself. The field was no longer a man’s game. However, it wasn’t a boy’s game, either. If Ryker wanted to play and not be considered a boy, he had to step up in order to move off the bench and volley like a man. His problem was that fourth string rarely received a second glance. The odds definitely weren’t in his favor.

  First, at twenty-four, he was one of the youngest employees at the firm, which meant most everyone else not only had seniority but more experience, too. Their names were out there. They represented high-profile clients who recommended their high-profile friends. Plus, their client lists were long. They had connections and important people in key positions who owed them favors. They were armed with humorous stories to tell of famous people they knew. And they were smart. What did he have that most of them didn’t? Creativity and investigative skills, and he’d have to play those to his advantage. Sure, Lesley would be angry once she learned of his deception to weasel his way in, but paying dues was a lie—eighteen months’ worth of lies.

  He didn’t feel entitled to anything, nor did he expect it to be easy. But he’d slaved through more than his share of long hours doing anything anyone asked him and all the grunt necessities no one else cared to do. He did the footwork and all the research only to have others use it to land the big dogs and leave him zero scraps. Once they obtained the information, they cut him out of every part of the negotiations. Half the clients he’d helped land he hadn’t even met. His colleagues didn’t consider him worthy of an introduction. They didn’t even repay him with the slight courtesy of getting his name out there. Well, they could all move to off, which was the direction they could fuck.

  Bub’s dying, God rest his soul—assuming that was the direction his spirit had traveled—had been a golden opportunity. His client list was the Empire Club little black book of sports, and every decent agent worth his or her jockstrap had tripped over their own cleats to recruit the newly available athletes before Bub’s body had grown cold. It was a middle finger to Bub, too, Ryker supposed. Callous, yes, but business worked that way.

  Unfortunately, Ryker didn’t receive the cutthroat memo until too late. Like a decent dumbass, he’d remained reverent and kept a distance out of respect for the grieving family. Unlike many of his coworkers, he hadn’t stooped to sending flowers to Bub’s widow as a ploy to butter her up to put in a good word for them with Bub’s clients. However, the ploy had backfired. Bub’s widow, embarrassed by Bub’s kicking the bucket while balls deep in a nineteen-year-old hooker as a media cover story, met those condolences with a side of what the hell were you thinking when you brought this shit up in here? Ryker speculated that she’d been more embarrassed by the fact that the hooker was nineteen than her husband’s infidelity being exposed. If Bub wasn’t already dead, Ryker would bet his life savings that Bub’s widow would have hung, strung, and quartered him. Of course, he couldn’t blame her, considering he’d wanted to tar and feather his own cheating ex. He found absolutely no reason to mourn a partner who lacked the respect for a relationship. If he could advise Bub’s widow, he’d tell her the best way to get over someone old was to get under someone new—or atop, depending on preference.

  The elevator stopped, and the doors opened to the hotel lobby. The two exited, and Ryker exhaled, relieved. He hadn’t realized he’d been stifling his breathing since he’d slid into Timothée’s suite. Sure, he’d been nervous about the plan he’d concocted, but there was more to it. There was something about the way the man had looked at him—dismissive yet interested.

  “What do you make of him?” Ryker asked. “A tad arrogant, don’t you think?”

  “He’s a client just like anyone else. Most are.”


  Nah, he’s more. “Yeah, but you didn’t pick up any weird vibes?”

  Lesley snapped her head to face him and frowned. “Listen, I agreed to allow you to work on this, but don’t start with your ‘vibes’ crap. You’re a sports agent at one of the top agencies in the country, not some mindless groupie. We work from facts and demographics. Nothing else. Got it?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “No buts. You agreed not to argue.”

  Well, that didn’t take long to bite him in the ass.

  Pressing his lips together, he crossed the lobby, exited onto the sidewalk, and stared up at the hotel’s windows. He’s up there. Wonder if he’s watching. He pondered for another moment. Probably. Timothée certainly had watched Ryker’s every move in the suite.

  Almonds, he decided. Timothée’s eyes were the color of almonds. He’d never seen anyone with that shade—even more dazzling in person than in photos. And those lips…. Juicy. He could put those to work in some inventive ways. They were encircled by a trimmed beard just thick enough to hide the skin and topped by a nose from page six of Plastic Surgeon’s Digest. He didn’t suppose that was a real publication, but he knew from reports and game footage that Timothée’s nose had been broken twice—once from a fist and the other from an airborne puck. Yet there was no evidence looking at him. He would make a flawless mold for a mannequin. Ryker suspected Timothée’s physical appearance more than his athletic ability was the reason he’d been hired as the face of Phanthyon Designs, one of the bougiest houses of men’s fashion. So bougie, in fact, that they served sakura hor d’oeuvres on silver platters to customers, or so Ryker had heard. Customers needed an invitation to shop there, and Ryker’s name was nowhere close to being on that opulent and coveted list. But what else would be expected of a store where a pair of socks cost three digits? Ridiculous.

  “Ryker!”

  He pulled himself from his thoughts and refocused on Lesley. “Huh?”

  “You’re not listening to me.”

  “Sure I am.” What did she say?

  “Oh?” She cocked her head. “What did I say?”

  Busted.

  “That you’re the boss.”

  Lesley grunted. “Nice try. I told you to compile a list of charitable works Timothée’s done in the past.”

  “That’ll be a short list.”

  “Why?”

  “He may not be making any human sacrifices, but Timothée Croneaus’ no humanitarian.”

  “I’m sure he’s done something.”

  “Other than spending years coming across as an elitist cad? Doubtful.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Wasn’t meant to be. His parents were known for their charitable work, but other than surname, he’s not connected with the Croneau Foundation. One reason the media is eating up this story is because he’s already so disliked by the public and comes across as an arrogant ass.” And sexy. Timothée had one of the hottest asses Ryker had ever seen. He’d tried to keep it professional and not look, but how could he not? Some things couldn’t be ignored. Timothée’s ass was one of them. “Rumor has it that his intention is to dismantle the Croneau Foundation. You should know this.”

  And I should have known better than to say that.

  “What did you say to me?” Lesley’s nostrils flared.

  “I’m not being disrespectful. All I’m saying is—”

  “That I don’t know how to do my job. Screw you.” She spun on her heel and stormed off down the sidewalk. “And get lost.”

  “Lesley!”

  She didn’t respond.

  He knew not to follow, that she needed time to cool off.

  In the doghouse already.

  Shit.

  3

  Timothée

  “Bonjour,” Aidan Lefèvre greeted as he slid into the café seat across from Timothée. “C’est bon de te voir. Ça roule?”

  “Ça pourrait être pire.” Timothée cast a weak smile at his Owls ex-teammate’s polite inquiry to his well-being and then shrugged. Who am I kidding? Of course my life could be worse and probably will be, too.

  He hesitated.

  If anyone understood only a minuscule portion of what Timothée felt, Aidan, who not so long ago had been in a similar situation—minus the dead parents and murder suspect part—would. Aidan appeared to be faring well now from his predicament. Hang on. Wasn’t that Lesley’s word for it? Aidan’s cheeks had color and his eyes sparkled—but not the way Ryker’s had.

  Wait. Why had Ryker invaded his thoughts… again? Moreover, why hadn’t the man absconded from them?

  Timothée released a languid breath. “It’s shitty, man. This entire year has been shitty.”

  Aidan nodded. “I guess a better question is how are you holding up?”

  Timothée glanced around the room at the other patrons, who chattered and laughed carefree while digging into aromatic foods. No one seemed to pay him or Aidan any attention, but it did little to settle his paranoia. He reverted back to speaking in French, although it wasn’t his first language as it was Aidan’s. But he’d played on his former French-speaking Canadian team long enough to be fluent.

  “Trades are all part of it, aren’t they?” Timothée asked rhetorically.

  “That wasn’t what I meant, but we can go with that.”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Of course you will. But will your teammates survive you?”

  “I didn’t go kicking and screaming. I packed my bags as told and left to do my thing for someone else the same way you did. You for the Civets and me for the”—his voice lowered several decibels “—Mutineers. Good Lord. If that ain’t a fine how-do-you-do.”

  “There must be something positive about it.” Aidan’s tone lacked conviction.

  “Last in everything except penalties. Can’t catch a cold in the damn rain. There’s mumbling about relocating the club… again. I mean, damn it, how many times can one franchise fail?”

  “Politics. All that’s needed is an ownership group that sees the value in the team and fans who fully embraces it.”

  “Fuck politics. Fuck this team. And fuck the fans.”

  “I don’t think that’s a healthy attitude.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck my attitude, too.”

  Aidan leaned back in his seat and smirked. “Feel better?”

  “Not particularly.” He sighed again. “Sorry.”

  “An apology? That’s new. But don’t be. You’re going through a lot.” Aidan paused as his expression grew somber. “I’m sorry about your folks.”

  “Everyone says that, but I think you’re the first person to mean it.”

  “Why?”

  “You know how they were. No one liked them. They were assholes to everyone. But in death, miraculously, everyone achieves sainthood, and they’ve become the eminence of Mandeville. How am I supposed to grieve people who were the embodiment of evil?” His voice quivered. “People who never gave a shit about me.” No, I will not lose it. He snatched the menu from the table and diverted his eyes to the specials. For as much as his brain could process at the moment, the menu choices may as well have been written in hieroglyphics. “This bouillabaisse sounds sketchy. If I’d known you wanted to meet up for lunch, I would have picked a better place. The attorney I hired met me at his Ridgeland office, and I told my driver to stop at the first choke-and-puke once we arrived back in town.”

  Aidan’s expression remained static. “We’ve had lunch plenty of times. Why do you act surprised?”

  “Most of the old team doesn’t call, let alone pop in for unannounced visits. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “Oui, but you don’t answer your phone, either.”

  Timothée shrugged. “I’ll give you that.” A smattering more composed, he lowered his menu. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Lesley.”

  Timothée’s brows furrowed. “That woman.”

  “She’s not so bad.”

  Timothée grunted a
nd motioned toward the waitress. “If you say so. Is she why you’re in town?”

  “Partly. I had a meeting with her earlier, but I wanted to see you.”

  “You must be desperate for company.”

  “Must be.”

  “I only signed with her because she handles you. I figured she must do something right if you’d have her. But then again, you always did have bad taste in women. Speaking of….” The corners of his mouth curled. “There’s been talk.”

  “There’s always talk.”

  “Yeah, but not like this. According to the jungle telegraph, you did a bait and switch and hooked up with a certain team captain.”

  “Uh-uh. We’re not talking about me.”

  Timothée flashed a genuine smile. “So, it’s true?”

  “What did I say?” Aidan waved off his lunch companion and turned to the waitress who’d approached the table. “I’ll have the pesto artichoke and chicken panini with a lemonade,” he ordered in English.

  Timothée knew Aidan’s language choice wasn’t solely for the waitress’s understanding. It also indicated he was done speaking on his personal life. Perhaps that was why their friendship worked so well—because neither communicated private matters.

  “And for you, sir?” the waitress asked.

  “Let me get the crawdad po’boy and a Crown and Coke with not so much Coke.”

  Aidan’s eyebrows shot upward. “Starting a bit early, aren’t you?”

  “What’s that saying about it being five o’clock?”

  “Then I suppose it’s bad manners to allow you to drink alone.” He turned back to the waitress. “I’ll have the house beer instead.”