Penalty Kill

by Genevive Chamblee

  “Maybe. We could try.”

  “A nurse tried to help me once. No one has seen her since. Her family reported her missing but later recanted and claimed she ran off. The recant came a day after they had a meeting with Maxwell Weymouth.”

  Ryker slicked back his hair with both hands and let out a puff of breath.

  “I told you in the beginning not to ask questions.”

  “I know.” Ryker’s eyes darted around the room. “It’s difficult to imagine parents would do this to their own child. Your father—”

  Timothée sat erect from his reclined position and growled through his teeth. “Stop calling him that. He wasn’t my father. My sperm donor disappeared into the ether when I was six months old and later had the sordid breeding to off himself when I was three—because no, I didn’t need a father. The responsibility of parenthood was too much demand of one person, asked too much for a dad to be unselfish. To this day, I can’t even speak his name without getting a hernia.” He made no attempt to suppress the rawness and disdain in his voice. “Then my mother—and I use the term loosely because I’m not to speak ill of the dead—married a slug whose lineage had been floating around in the shallow end of the gene pool for generations. Yet she gave me life, so I’m not allowed to be ungrateful. She worked tirelessly to maintain that the Croneau name be synonymous with honor and dignity, as it has been for generations.”

  He turned his head and stared at the floor when his eyes glinted with tears. Pull your shit together. He would not be weak in front of anyone.

  “Besides, how would exposing the situation help?” he continued.

  “The truth always sets people free.”

  “Unless it provides the police with another motive—the sole heir is also seeking revenge.” Timothée laughed dryly. “Want to know what’s really funny as all get-out?”

  “None of this is funny.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Any blemishes on the name caused by me, as determined by what I already know to be written in the will— cos, hell, they told me—will forfeit my trust fund and inheritance.”

  “Eek.” Ryker rolled in his lips, contemplated. “This is more complicated than I thought.”

  “It’s quite the shitstorm nugget, isn’t it? And that’s just the ditch water. I haven’t even tapped the septic tank.”

  “I’m sorry, Timothée. When I suggested you read the eulogy, I had no idea. Under the circumstances, perhaps it’s best if the minister does it.”

  After composing himself, Timothée looked back at Ryker. “I take it we’re on plan B now.”

  “Oh, we’re way beyond that. We’re somewhere in the middle of the alphabet.” Ryker squirmed on the bench.

  “You okay? You look mighty red.”

  “It’s stifling in here.”

  “Oddly, that sometimes happens in saunas.”

  “Screw you.”

  Timothée’s spirits lifted, and he squinted to make out through the steam the shape of a teammate seated across the room with a towel draped over his head. “I did detect exhibitionist vibes from you at the parlor, but it doesn’t seem like much of an audience here.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Still too soon?”

  “Keep having your little laugh. I’m out.”

  Timothée raised a brow. “You just got in.”

  “I’m roasting.”

  “Pot roast.”

  “What?”

  “Pot roast. You know.”

  Ryker stared at him with a blank expression.

  “Yankee pot roast. Yankee… ’cos you’re from—”

  Ryker groaned and rolled his eyes. “I get it and won’t be adding comedic work to your list of attributes. I thought you had higher standards than dad jokes.” He stood but hesitated before leaving. “You like being a Southerner?”

  “I don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s what I am.”

  “But you’ve been living in Canada for so long.”

  “Being a Southerner is imprinted on your soul. It never goes away.”

  “That’s a good quote. I can use it.”

  “Use it for what?” Timothée asked.

  “I’ll explain later. But right now, I’m escaping this Satan’s cauldron.”

  “Where are you going? I thought we were having lunch.”

  “We are, but I have work to do first. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

  15

  Ryker

  “Homecomings are slated to be happy occasions—a return to loved ones and familiar faces. This is not to be the case for me as I return under such harrowing circumstances to Mandeville, a place imprinted on my heart and soul.

  “Everyone experiences grief in different ways, and thus copes differently. There is no prescription of correctness. I lack the eloquence of words to express my sense of bereavement while grappling with the initial shock of what has happened. A motley of interchanging emotions, including incomprehension, disbelief, and anger, that are continuously ebbing through me has compiled to the difficulty of communicating this devastation. Therefore, I’ll speak humbly from my heart.

  “First, I want to acknowledge the tremendous contribution throughout the years that Luca Lauder and Jacqueline Croneau-Lauder made to an extensive list of noteworthy charities and organizations that are too numerous to list. I respect the dedication and commitment they displayed to Mandeville and in helping others. Their acts will never be forgotten, and I share in the community’s desire to focus on this aspect of their lives. I will be diligent to ensure their memories continue to live through their works by becoming active in the undertakings of the Croneau Foundation.

  “Since receiving the dreadful news, I have witnessed an overwhelming expression of sadness from the community and those who knew them. I would like to thank each of you who have sent messages, uplifted me in prayers, brought flowers, and paid your respects in so many ways. This outpouring of compassion has been an immense source of comfort.

  “I believe there are lessons to be drawn from the lives of Luca Lauder and Jacqueline Croneau-Lauder. I further believe there are lessons in the poignant reaction to their deaths. At this time, I do not know what those lessons are, as the loss is too fresh, and I’m still attempting to process that I must face the future without them. I hope in time to come to terms with and be able to draw strength from this tragedy. I must have faith that understanding will one day be granted to me. As for now, I respectfully ask that I be permitted the courtesy and privacy to mourn as I begin the process of navigating this new reality.”

  Timothée brought his eyes from the computer screen to Ryker. “People are going to know I didn’t write this.”

  “No they won’t. I made it dry enough to sound authentic without being offensive or saying anything that would seem like a contradiction if and when you decide to tell your truth.” Ryker opened his email. “I wanted you to read it first before I send it to Mace for final approval.”

  “I don’t want to be a part of the foundation.”

  “It’s going to look horrible if you don’t.”

  Timothée rolled in his lips and muttered, “It’ll look worse if I do.”

  “What? It’s your family’s foundation. Your heritage.”

  “You don’t get it.”

  “Then explain it.”

  Timothée blinked and stared as if he had something to add but instead returned his focus to the document. “Forget it. Send it to Mace.”

  “Timothée—”

  “So, how does this help with the nuthouse stuff?”

  Elvis has left the building and slammed the door. “Baby steps. Your first post on social media shouldn’t be directly responding to allegations. You’re grieving.” Ryker side-eyed Timothée’s tribal-print yellow shirt and striped pants. “You may want to refrain from the bright colors to, you know, look less like you’re on your way to the club.”

  “Whatever. I’m not getting gussied up like Count Dracula to adhere to some pre-dirt standard.”

 
; “Perception is everything, Timothée. Like it or not, you’re being tried in the media, and the public wants—”

  “Wants what? Tears? Apologies? They’re not going to get it.”

  “People are multidimensional. The world saw your parents as generous philanthropists. That’s the image they’re clinging to, and they’re hurting. They want to share their pain with you—the person who should have been closest to the deceased. They want to grieve with you and see some outward acknowledgment of it, not watch you carrying on business as usual in your variegated designer apparel.”

  “What are you talking about?” He touched his shirt. “This is Vicuña wool.”

  “Variegate. It means….” He waved his hand. “It’s not important. People want you to be on their level.”

  “They want blood.”

  “It doesn’t have to be yours. As humans, it’s in our DNA to seek justice.”

  “You mean to place blame and get revenge.”

  “No. We need to have things make sense. It’s that seeking of knowledge and answers that caused all that trouble in the Garden all those centuries ago.”

  “Seriously?” Timothée strummed his fingers on the table. “You went there? To serpents falling out of trees and celestial beings wielding fiery swords?”

  “I’ll go anywhere I need to in order to get you on the same page with me.” He opened his email, attached the document, and pressed Send. “Believe it or not, most people aren’t going to hold it against you that the police are investigating you. The family of victims is usually the first suspected. And once they’re ruled out, the police move on.”

  Timothée snorted and stared out the window of the converted bridge restaurant above the Mississippi River. “You’ve watched too many episodes of Law & Order. The police go for the easiest target because politicians don’t like unsolved cases in election years. Why would they look any further when it takes little effort to pin this on me?”

  Ryker didn’t have an answer. “Listen, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “At this point, I’m not even in the fucking race.”

  “No, you play your game. Isn’t that what the coaches tell you when your team is behind? The motto of hockey? Not to worry about what your opponent is doing but to play the game you’ve been trained to play?” He answered his own questions by nodding. “Well, that’s what we’re going to do. While they’re creating their narrative, we’re going to systematically construct our own version. And the first thing we need to do is to show you as a real person.”

  “Real as opposed to what? A rougarou?”

  Roug-a-what? Do not ask that question. Stay focused. “To being more than an image on a television screen.” Ryker leaned back in his chair. “Years ago, I saw a holiday movie about an actor who needed to revive his career and improve his image. So, his agent sent him to a remote small town to live among the residents as part of a contest.”

  “I’m not liking where this is headed.” Timothée’s mouth twisted in scorn. “You better not be banishing me to some Stepford Wives commune.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “Then hop to it. I’m not about baking apple fritters.”

  “Stop interrupting. Damn.” Ryker closed the laptop. “The locals expected the character. So, when the actor couldn’t deliver Hollywood, the residents were disappointed and angry. They felt betrayed.”

  “Was I supposed to understand that?” Timothée uncrossed and recrossed his legs. His eyes caught Ryker’s and held there, questioning. “You really should work on your storytelling skills.”

  “The actor had built his career portraying a certain type of character. When he turned out not to be the avid outdoorsman like his character and was just a city boy playing a part, the community considered him a fraud because they failed to compartmentalize the individual from the brand. I remember thinking it was the most ridiculous plot I’d ever seen. An actor’s job is to act.”

  “But it’s a double-edged sword. All fans want is the act, the fantasy. Remember that comedian who lost his career when he tried to branch out from his bad boy persona? Fans not only expect but they want the one-trick pony.”

  Ryker shook his head. “Only if that’s all you show them. When I was searching you on the internet, I couldn’t find a single image of you smiling—I mean a genuine smile. And that’s a shame because yours is breathtaking.”

  Timothée’s expression transformed from solemn to mischievous in an instant. “It’s what?”

  A flush crept up Ryker’s neck and into his cheeks. “I mean… aw, hell! You know you turn me on.”

  “But?”

  Don’t say it. “I’m on the clock.”

  “And when you’re off?”

  Ryker smiled. The excitement within him rivaled what he saw in Timothée’s eyes. Dangerous. Quickly, he looked away and focused on a tugboat pushing a line of barges. If he didn’t, he’d melt into putty. For some reason, Timothée had a strange effect on him, and Ryker felt powerless to fight against it. How else could he explain allowing Timothée to spread him from east to west and spear him in the ass in the back seat of a chauffeured car? Any other man and Ryker would have put a stop to anything before the first syllable had been completed. He’d learned his lesson about giving up too much control in a relationship.

  Screech! Relationship? Who said anything about a relationship? Just because they’d hooked up didn’t mean anything. Hell, he’d probably been assigned to category of fuckboy—definitely not something he wanted added to his résumé. And even if Timothée wasn’t his client, the timing couldn’t be worse.

  “We should focus…,” Ryker started, fairly calmly considering he simultaneously fought to stave off the tightening in his nuts. But his words trailed off when a hand groped him beneath the table. Yep. Putty. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

  “And?”

  “We’re in a restaurant. Someone might see.”

  “Ain’t nobody paying us any attention.” He moved his hand and tugged on the zipper.

  Ryker yelped and lurched forward. “You can’t pull my dick out here,” he warned in a harsh whisper.

  “Seems it did it on its own,” Timothée replied, rubbing the bulbous head that peeked out through the zipper opening.

  “Jeez.” Ryker squirmed while attempting not to draw any attention from other customers. His willpower drained by the second. “Let’s make a deal. After we get through this, you can have all the ass play you want.” I’ve lost my damn mind. Ryker had no idea why he was agreeing when his ass hadn’t recovered from last night’s pounding.

  That wasn’t true. He knew exactly why he’d agreed. God help him, he was falling for Timothée Croneau. Yes, it had only been a couple days since they’d met, but Ryker already felt pulled to him, connecting in a way he hadn’t with others. Although Timothée was the strapping embodiment of masculinity, an overwhelming need to protect him, to soothe his hurt, arose in Ryker. He didn’t know if what stirred in him made sense, but it existed.

  “Deal.” Timothée released his grasp and dramatically made a show of folding his hands in his lap. “What’s next?”

  Ryker blew a long breath both to recompose himself—and his pants—and to gather the energy for what he needed to say next. “There are enough media photos of your parents that we can make a selection to use at the memorial. However, it would be beneficial to have at least one family photo for your social media.”

  He watched Timothée’s entire body tense, a flutter of emotions washing over his face as he debated an internal conflict. After a moment, he moved and withdrew his slender wallet. Ryker expected Timothée to toss a wad of money on the table as a tip for a meal they hadn’t ordered yet. Instead, he withdrew a worn photo, dog-eared on the corners. His hand trembled as he extended it to Ryker.

  Ryker accepted and stared at the image of Timothée being cradled as a newborn by his smiling mother. He could tell from the condition of the photograph that it had been viewed often and was treas
ured. He also noticed it seemed to be the only picture in the wallet. Oh, Timothée, you’re so complex. “I’ll take good care of this and get it back to you soon.”

  “No rush.”

  “There’s no ignominy in loving those who hurt us.”

  Timothée jerked his head toward the tugboat. “The city closed this bridge because the tugs kept ramming barges into the piles. They determined the piles had been weakened, making the bridge unsafe for travel. So, of course, the city converted it into this restaurant, which means we’re sitting on beams of metal that could collapse at any time.”

  And boom! Conversation over. You need a safe place. I’ll give you one. You’re safe with me. “Speaking of beams of metal, before leaving the arena, I snapped a few shots of your sticks. I thought I could upload a couple of those, too—you know, to make it personal but keep it professional at the same time.” He retrieved the digital camera from his laptop bag and showed Timothée the photos. “I can’t wrap my head around you not having any social media.”

  “What’s the purpose of a personal page if it’s all professionally orchestrated and crafted? The team pages serve the same purpose.”

  “First, it allows the fans to glimpse more than what happens on the ice and enough to whet their palate so they’re not rummaging through your trash. You have control of what’s published. Second, not everything is scripted. Some players do it themselves. Others may not have the time or feel competent enough to post quality content that supports their brand. For them, it’s easier to hire someone.”

  “So, that’s another thing. Besides hockey, what content?” Timothée asked.

  “Well, you could post about your hobbies.”

  “Watching hockey.”

  “When there’s not a game on.”

  “I have satellite. There’s always a game on.”

  “When the satellite goes out.”

  “I stream.”