Each day, he struggled to get used to this being his new home.
Home. He grunted at the irony. A city three hours south by car from where he stood was where he’d been born and raised. Yet it was a location nine hours north by plane that he considered home. Still, he had to admit, when he was informed by the GM of his trade, he’d been almost certain it would be to Saint Anne, a team in his home state and that also recently had bought Aidan’s contract. When it didn’t happen, he understood and was open to being shipped to New York, Tampa, or hell, even Arizona. But never once had he expected to be demoted from a championship team to the worst club in the league, and perhaps internationally. Sure, he could pretend his team didn’t suck, and if it quacked like a duck….
He should have—but hadn’t—expected as much. For several years, there had been grumbling in the Owls franchise about wanting to get rid of some of the higher-salaried players for new blood, aka younger. No surprise there since it was a standard in the industry. After Aidan’s shoulder injury, he hadn’t performed as well, so Timothée understood somewhat what the owners were thinking with that trade. However, what yanked Timothée’s jockstrap was that, unlike Aidan, he was at the top of his game—one of the Owls’ highest scorers with ninety points in eighty-two games and ninety-three points in eighty-one games respectfully in his last two seasons there. He’d never slacked off—not one day, not one game.
He also had known he was coming to the end of his contract in a year and expected that there would have to be some compromises made on both sides. Instead of waiting to renegotiate, they traded him like a moldy gas station tuna sandwich with no pickles for a PB&J. Thus, his transfer to the Mutineers was ordained. However, Lesley convinced the Mutineers to offer him a lucrative three-year contract that would go into effect the minute his current contract expired. So now he was stuck there unless they traded him, which he didn’t foresee happening anytime soon.
He could have taken his chances on being a free agent, and he was sure to have gotten offers. But none as high as the Mutineers because they needed him more than any other team. Of course, the owners may be thinking twice about that now with Timothée’s new baggage. However, standing in the parking lot staring at the busted-ass marquee wasn’t changing a damn thing.
He entered the foyer, greeted by an empty trophy cabinet. No Hall of Famers’ photos or framed retired sweaters adorning the walls. Just an empty space that smelled of cedar and carpet shampoo. If he did well and continued with the team, he could be the first photo up there. But was that what he wanted? Did he want to be remembered for being on this team? It wasn’t that he was arrogant and deemed himself too superior for the Mutineers. Okay, maybe he was arrogant. No, no maybe—he was. He was also arguably the best player on the team, but neither of those was the reason for his reservation. Since its inception, the team had irrefutable issues. To make matters worse, each year they’d escalated in depraved conduct. Shitty stats he could accept; he disliked them but could live with it. However, the way the majority of his teammates disrespected the game sat crossways with him.
Again, he understood his role. He grasped that he was acquired to be a team leader, not only in goals but guidance—although, he hadn’t been named captain. And maybe him not being captain was the problem. However, he couldn’t justify coming in and leapfrogging to that position. In any case, captain or not, there existed a huge difference between captain and babysitter, and he’d be damned if he played nanny every game.
Many of his teammates had talent, or rather potential. Some of their skills needed honing. Nevertheless, there existed more than a handful of rotten apples—Benoit, the self-proclaimed but not official captain being one of them. Benoit’s personal motto appeared to be “If one can’t win, eliminate.” For Timothée, that type of attitude crossed the line. He was down for dropping the gloves and getting the adrenaline pumping. And if he were honest, most times it was a fun way to burn off steam and motivation to get the team fired up. But it was never done with malice. Sure, his temper flared on the ice at times, but it abated as quickly. If he had a beef with a player, they resolved it with a few punches and served their time in the sin bin. At least, that was how it was supposed to work. No doubt, there were agitators whose job it was to throw other players off their game, except Benoit seemed to carry a permanent anger pathogen that he spread to other team members.
Professional courtesy prescribed players to square off and ask if either wanted to have a go. Benoit threw sucker punches and never missed an opportunity to slew-foot. Only a coward aimed at a man’s back. The majority of Benoit’s hits were dirty. And no, Timothée never claimed saintliness. In fact, he trash-talked and chirped with the best of them. In the past, he’d taken a cheap shot with a jab or elbow, but never with enough force to cause injury. He aimed to aggravate and mentally derail his opponent. On the contrary, Benoit’s tactics were possibly career-enders.
Timothée bit into his bottom lip. Now that he thought about it, he’d never been fined until joining the Mutineers. He’d fought in that game because he’d had no choice and because his inexperienced teammates were getting their asses handed to them by seasoned veterans. When yard sales like that happened, everyone gained a dancing partner. But then the retaliation began, and that was when shit got real. Due to Benoit and the naive whippersnapper minions who pranced behind him like imprinted ducklings, Timothée had defensive men gunning for him harder than ordinary. No game was Disney on Ice, but doggone it. The morning after games, he awoke feeling like Snap, Crackle, and Pop, with every vertebra popping from the circumference of his cranium to his ass crack and sounding as though he was stomping across an obstacle course of packing peanuts.
Keep it pushing, he urged himself and sauntered into the players’ lounge.
He was early, but he liked it that way. It allowed him first selection at the breakfast bar. But he also used the solitude to acclimate, remind himself this was his reality. He grabbed a whole wheat bagel and slathered on an avocado egg salad spread. After pouring himself a whey protein shake, he sat at a small table in the corner.
“Hey,” Carter, one of the trainers, greeted. “I didn’t expect you here today.”
“Why not?” Timothée mumbled between chews.
“I thought you’d be home making arrangements.”
“Arrangements?”
“Funeral.”
“Why would I be?”
“Because….” Carter shifted uneasily. “They’re your parents. You’re next of kin, right?” His inflection made it more a question than a statement. “Or did they already take care of that? I know some people do.”
Timothée swallowed a large bite, and it lodged high in his chest. Or maybe something else created the pain he felt. He hadn’t considered he would be responsible for his parents’ burial. He thought… actually, he’d never thought about it. Slap him in the face with naivety and reality in unison. Of course he’d be expected to because… because that was what children did, right? Angels didn’t descend with celestial sprinkles and make it all happen. But Jacqueline and Luca had staff. No one had contacted him. Then again, as far as he knew, the autopsies were still being completed.
God, my mother is lying in a morgue.
His skin grew clammy.
“Are you all right?”
Timothée stiffened. “Yeah. Sure.” He took a large gulp of his shake to force down the sandwich. Nothing moved.
“Well, if you need anything, holler.” Carter stalled a few seconds longer before shuffling into the equipment room.
For a moment, Timothée sat dazed and then decided getting his blood circulating may help. Discarding the remainder of his breakfast, he wandered into the dry stall room. He scrutinized himself in the full-length mirror and grimaced. Flint gray wasn’t his color, but of course it was the only hoodie the hotel boutique had in his size. It made his skin look ashy, but at least wearing it had shut Ryker up… for all of two seconds. Three if he counted the time it took for him to find matching shoes
. All that fuss and having to use his VIP status to have the hotel boutique open three hours early, and for what? No one saw him except the people in the hotel lobby and the security cameras. Were they watching? Doubtful. Only a sprinkle of housekeeping staff had been in the lobby when he left for the arena, and they’d been focused on dusting. He could have worn his red tracksuit. Who cared—other than Ryker—if it was embossed with a golden dragon devouring a mermaid? He would have stripped out of it the same as he was stripping out of the hideous gray one and into his workout clothes. He tugged on the front of the hoodie. Tacky. He tossed it on the floor of his locker, noting that he’d never wear the monstrosity again.
After changing, he made his way to the stationary bikes and selected the same one he’d been using since his transfer. Nothing made it stand out among the others, but he considered it his warm-up bike now. It defied logic that he would feel a bond with a hunk of computerized metal, but he did. It was as if he were meeting an old friend. He didn’t have to talk or think, only ride.
He positioned himself on the seat and set the timer. Leaning forward, he inhaled deeply, allowing the air to fill his lungs before forcing it out. He repeated this three times—because three times was the charm—while simultaneously wrapping his hands around the leather padded handlebars. His long fingers opened and closed—also three times—before making a firm grip. Finally, with his ritual completed, he began pedaling.
The resistance wasn’t much, which allowed him to find his pace. That was the thing about working out and hockey. He could always find the rhythms and patterns. And by finding those, he could find comfort. Control.
Why was his life so out of control?
Damn it! He slammed his palms against the bike’s screen.
Several of his teammates who had arrived since he’d begun shot him bewildered and miffed glares. He couldn’t blame them. Him banging the screen had come out of the blue; he’d even startled himself.
“Croneau,” Bert Addison called, heading toward Timothée. His steps were long and quick.
The howl of Satan. Timothée slowed pedaling. “Yeah, Coach?”
“Why are you here?”
Not again. “Training for next week’s game.”
“Everyone would understand if you took a few days for yourself.”
Maybe everyone else would, but Timothée wouldn’t. What was he supposed to do? All he knew was hockey. He could handle hockey. Comprehend the game. It was straightforward with timed periods and rules that told him what to do. Playbooks that told him where to be.
He stopped pedaling altogether. “You putting me in detention, Coach?”
Addison’s voice dropped. “I need my players to be all mentally there. Balanced.”
Timothée snorted despite himself. He wasn’t mentally balanced on any day—just shy of little green men sending him messages through aluminum foil on his head, according to some—but what he was was a damn good forward every day. “I always give my best.”
“You do.” Addison nodded. “But you’re still settling in, and I don’t want you to feel obligated to be here during this time strictly because you’re new. Family comes first, and we’re part of that family now.”
Timothée suppressed a grim smirk. Who was Addison hoodwinking? In hockey, one could spend years playing shoulder to shoulder, having each other’s back, and five minutes later be traded and become sworn adversaries. Who were these people to call him family? They didn’t know him.
Most likely, they didn’t want a suspected murderer hanging around.
Timothée glanced around the room at his teammates. Usually, they would be yakking it up with chatter and scurrying around the machines. However, at present, they quietly leaned against equipment and bore somber expressions while watching his interaction with Addison.
He looked back at his coach. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
It was the only response Timothée could muster, and Addison scratched the graying hair on his temple as he studied the younger man.
“All right,” Addison finally said after another moment. “Carry on.”
Timothée poked buttons on the screen, causing the bike to beep and incline. Immediately, the resistance intensified, and he pumped hard against the pedals while increasing his speed. He locked his jaw and tightened his grip on the handlebars until his knuckles lost color. The burn spread through his legs and thighs, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
That was what he needed—pain, not sympathy.
7
Ryker
“You want me to do what?” Ryker held up his index finger to Lesley as he pressed the phone closer to his ear. Surely he hadn’t heard Timothée on the other end correctly. However, when Timothée repeated himself, there was no mistaking the request.
“Pick out caskets.”
“That’s what I thought you said.” Ryker hoisted Lesley’s suitcase out of the trunk of his rental and set it on the curb. “Wouldn’t you prefer to do that since it’s an important decision?”
“If I did, would I be calling you?”
Ordinarily, Ryker would have been miffed by the condescension in Timothée’s tone, but he’d heard something disquieted there, too. “Okay, what’s the name of the funeral home?”
“That’s up to you.”
Ryker’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. This was far beyond his job description. “You don’t have one in mind?”
“No.”
“What’s he saying?” Lesley mouthed.
Ryker waved her off. “What about the insurance company?”
“What about it?” Timothée replied.
Oh God! Are you shitting me? “We need to discuss in person. Are you at the hotel?”
There was a pause. “Sure.”
Ryker translated that to mean no. “Where can I meet you?” Please don’t let him be in some unsavory place, like an illegal gambling establishment or flophouse.
“Is that necessary?”
It’s like a root canal with this guy. “Yes.”
The driver in the car behind him blew his horn and yelled out the window, “Hey, move it, buddy.”
Ryker resisted the urge the flip the man off. Instead, he motioned for Lesley to give him a pen from her purse.
“Give me an address of where to meet you.”
Lesley rummaged through her purse and handed him… a fucking Sharpie. Seriously, that’s all you have? Permanent ink? He scribbled the address Timothée rattled off on his hand and then disconnected.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“I think he intends for me to arrange his parents’ funeral.”
“Oh.” Lesley’s jaw hung suspended. “Hmm.”
“That’s extraordinarily insightful of you,” he replied, his tone dripping with disdain. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Plan a funeral.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Look, you wanted to take him on as a client. Now you have him.”
“But—”
“No but. He called you, not me. Deal with it.”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move your car from the drop-off area,” an airport security officer stated.
“Yes, sir, I’m leaving now,” he answered with a wry smile.
After the guard approached another straggler, Ryker turned to Lesley. “That’s all you have to say?”
“No. Bye.” She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and headed toward the terminal doors.
“Gee, thanks a lot,” he called at her backside.
“No, no, no,” Ryker huffed, eyeing the Exotic Massages sign on the building at the address Timothée had relayed to him during their phone conversation. He double-checked the address in the GPS and sighed. Correct. This was not an under-suspicion-for-murder-friendly establishment. What is he thinking?
Ryker surveyed the area for paparazzi before exiting his rental and scurrying to the glass doors draped with blackout curtains. He swung the door open,
half expecting to find women scantily clad in dominatrix and French maid costumes. Instead, he was greeted by a woman with a puff of cotton-white hair, flattop readers, orthopedic shoes, and neon orange scrubs with matching lipstick who looked as if she should be giving knitting lessons at a retirement center.
“May I help you?” the lady asked with a welcoming smile.
“Uh….” Words evaded him, swept away by the distraction of the velvet cheetah-print wallpaper and sunshine yellow couches. Only stupid sputtering sounds tumbled out of his mouth.
“Do you have an appointment, dear?” she prodded in a grandmotherly tone.
“I’m meeting a client.” Should I use the term “client” in this place? “Timothée Croneau.” And maybe I shouldn’t have used Timothée’s real name. Customers who usually frequented these types of establishment probably used fakes.
“You must be Mr. Kitsch.”
Well, obviously Timothée had used Ryker’s given name. He nodded.
The lady smiled and pointed to a woman in her midtwenties with a periwinkle Afro standing beside a doorway with a string bead curtain. “Mr. Croneau is already in the room. Glenda will show you the way.”
Glenda grinned at him.
Uh-huh. Ryker returned her smile with an uneasy one. And, Glenda, are you a good witch or a bad witch, and is this going to involve dubious flowers or funny mushrooms? He remained silent as he followed her to a powder blue dressing room containing an oval aquarium with puffer fish, seahorses, and octopi.
“You can change in here and put all your clothes and belongings in any of the lockers that have a key,” Glenda instructed, extending a silk robe and a pair of flip-flops. “After you put everything in, lock it, and keep the key.”
“No.” Ryker shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I’m here to conduct a meeting.”
“But Mr. Croneau has paid for your session.”
“Can’t he be refunded?”
Her smile dimmed. “Yes, but he will be disappointed.”
Penalty Kill Page 5