“Great day!” Ryker propped his elbows on the table. “I’m sure there’s something you do other than hockey.”
“Drink beer.”
“No.”
“Tequila? Joven is the best.”
Ryker shook his head. “No,” he repeated, his voice low.
“No, it’s not the best?”
“No to all of it. You’re not posting about beer or tequila, especially not without a company endorsement. We don’t do free product placement.” He thought for a minute. “What about collecting? Do you collect anything?”
“Guns.”
“The fuck you say?” There couldn’t have been a worse answer.
Baby sweet potato, please don’t let there be Wild Wild West gangster photos with him Bonnie and Clyding it up circulating on the web. That would be a nightmare no one asked for.
Ryker clicked an app on his phone and typed in a note to find Timothée a hobby. “I’ll think of something.”
16
Timothée
“I have Second Amendment rights, you know. I can own a gun,” Timothée demanded with a speculative stare and stern pout. “It’s legal.”
The sun bounced through the tinted window, giving the restaurant a shimmering orange glow. The smell of seafood drifted around them, and Ryker closed his eyes and inhaled. When he opened them, he met Timothée’s glare. “No one is arguing that you can’t.”
“You make it sound sordid.”
“That’s not it, either.” For almost a minute, Ryker’s expression transformed to impassive as he studied his lunch companion. “It doesn’t look good under the circumstances.”
“Owning one doesn’t make me guilty.” Defiantly, Timothée tilted his head. His face creased in a puzzled frown. “If they had been stabbed to death, would my owning knives be a problem? If they were drowned, my owning a pool would qualify me as a candidate for being a suspect?”
“This is different.”
“How?”
“It just is.”
“I enjoy target shooting.”
“You don’t have to collect guns for that.”
“Well, what would you have me use?” Timothée asked. “My finger?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Occasionally I deer hunt, too.”
“Animal activists are not going to get all warm and fuzzy thinking you’re responsible for hunting Bambi’s mom.”
“They would if she electric boogalooed her whitetail ass across the interstate in front of their minivan or staggered up their back porch deck foaming at the mouth with CWD. Plus, I don’t hear many complaints about serving up Ferdinand medium rare. He didn’t land on their plates with garlic roasted potatoes and steamed asparagus via a bubble bath.”
“There are plenty who would have problems with that, too,” Ryker rebutted.
“It helps keep the population under control. Besides, deer meat is healthier than half the steroid-injected processed garbage sold in supermarkets.”
“All I’m saying is, now is not the time to put that out there for more scrutiny and speculation. Gun ownership is controversial. Pair that with the violence seen in hockey and—”
Timothée scoffed. “Know what the problem is? All these political types sticking their noses in and telling us our jobs. They’re not out there on the ice. I doubt a quarter of them have attended a game. But they form an opinion and feel entitled to thrust it upon the rest of us.”
Ryker drummed his fingers on the table as if weighing his thoughts before speaking. “That may be true, but you can’t deny the aggressiveness of hockey culture.”
“Look, I’m no enforcer, but I’m no pussy, either. Hockey is a physical game. What do you expect from a bunch of grown men on skates moving at speeds upward of thirty miles per hour and chasing a rubber disk to put food on the table? They’re going to fight for it, that’s what. The Polly parrots flapping their gums are potatoeing at home on their lumpy sectionals and woofing down double-stuffed Oreos while we’re trying to hustle a living by being flung up against sideboards. And let me tell you, in slow-mo, it may look like something you wave off cos we skate away, but that shit is brutal. That’s plexiglass, not cotton candy. It isn’t soft. You wake up the next day feeling like you have a busted case of scoliosis.”
“Your vernacular for medical descriptions is spectacular. That aside, commissioners are advocating the progression to a safer sport and a focus on skill.”
“I’m not saying the game hasn’t evolved because it has. But saying it’s changing to be one about skill is bullshit. It’s always been about skill. Name one professional hockey player who didn’t have talent. I’ll wait.” He paused and blinked dramatically.
“Timothée.”
“You can’t because you know I’m right. Some may have had more than others, but that’s with any occupation. To get to that level, you had to have skill. Difference is rolling back to old-school when it was all raw and not prettied up as it is now, less commercialized. Twenty years ago, a fan expected to see a couple fights per game. Now it’s one every ten games or so—unless you play on my suck-ass team. Then it’s every five seconds.”
“So aren’t you contradicting yourself? On the one hand, you’re saying fighting is survival, but then you criticize the Mutineers for fighting.”
“Fights in hockey are organic because adrenaline is running high, so players get fed up. It’s an outpouring of passion for the sport. When it’s manufactured, it’s so the suits can add more desserts to their buffet feasts. Any team can have a bad season. It’s fixed by coaching, training, and recruiting. There’s no shortcut. But if all an owner wants is a payday and isn’t willing to invest in his team, you get what we have: players scrapping to make a buck any way they can. They aren’t fighting because they’re caught up in the game. They’re fighting because fighting is their game. They’re fighting because no one is showing them how to apply their talent, and rent is always due at the first of the month. When you take the life of an animal, you don’t do it to mount a trophy on the wall or allow the carcass to rot. Its life is sacrificed for your survival, a meal to feed hungry bellies of people who live off the land. And being a gun owner doesn’t make a person a murderer. It’s a tool that can execute benefit or harm depending on the handler. People need to get it untwisted.”
A slow, mischievous smile overtook Ryker’s face. “Well, damn, you brought that full circle, didn’t you?”
Timothée smiled in return. “You liked it?”
“Guilty. The message was smooth, but the delivery was a bit abrasive.”
“You’re quite a peculiar one, aren’t you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“I just told you I’m nutsack-dipped-in-quaalude-dust crazy with a gun collection. I have at least three inches and twenty pounds on you. I’m suspected of murder, and yet you’re still sitting here.”
“Person of interest, not a suspect.”
“Semantics. Same thing.”
“Have you lost any sponsorships?” Ryker questioned.
“No.”
“Then it’s not the same thing.”
“Doesn’t matter. What kind of person sticks around after all that? Why do it?”
“Why not?”
Timothée’s face scrunched. “What kind of bullshit answer is that?”
“One you would give.” Ryker hoisted his index finger and wagged it in warning to stave off Timothée’s protest. “Don’t. It’s not debatable. But”—he made a sweeping gesture with his hand—“if you’re going to pout about it….”
A crease gathered between Timothée’s eyebrows. “I don’t pout.”
“Is that the story you’re sticking to?”
Timothée contemplated debating as he watched the greens of Ryker’s eyes intensify and decided the accusation was true. If his bottom lip currently protruded any farther, he’d trip on it. Besides, arguing with Ryker was growing harder with each passing second. “Fine,” he huffed, jerking one shoulder in a sh
rug. “Finish what you were going to say.”
“Let’s just agree that I hit different.”
“And why is that? You have something to prove?” Timothée ascertained by the way Ryker’s nostrils constricted that he had struck a nerve. “Ah!” Stuck a nerve, did I? His lips flattened. “So, who is it? Your ex-lover?”
“I told you. He’s out of my life. I’ve no idea where he is or what he’s doing, nor do I give two fucks.”
“Daddy, then?”
Ryker stiffened. “Are we discussing daddy issues? Because if we are, I have questions.”
Timothée’s expression soured. “Never mind. Keep your secrets.”
“Oh, aren’t you one to talk?”
“I have reasons.”
“Yes, you trust no one.”
“Apparently neither do you.”
“That’s not….” Ryker expelled a long sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s youngest child syndrome. I grew up in the shadows of my sisters who excel at every fucking thing—even being born. They each sailed out of my mother’s womb in a matter of a few hours. I took three days, was breeched, and born by Caesarean.”
“Are you serious? You’re salty with your old man because you were born via C-section?”
“No. I’m the son my father waited for. And when I arrived, I failed to deliver. My sisters inherited all the natural talent. I had to work for everything—not that I mind hard work. It builds character to not have everything handed to you. It’s just exhausting when it’s to get someone who’s supposed to love you to notice.”
Tell me about it. Preach! “He never noticed?”
“I think he was beginning to, but then….” Ryker’s shoulders sagged.
The polite thing to do would be to let it go, but Timothée curiosity was too great to exhibit courteousness. “Then what?”
“My senior year in high school, my swim team made it to the state finals.”
I knew it! Swimmer.
“I’d worked my ass off to make it. Two weeks prior to the championship was spring break, and my father treated us to a family vacation to Miami. Only it really wasn’t a vacation. My father had corralled us to help him wheel in a coveted client. While he wined and dined his client, my sisters and I were tasked with keeping—i.e., babysitting—the client’s crotch goblins, who their mother should have swallowed, occupied with a list of planned activities, one of which was snorkeling. Those creatures wanted no part of it. The entire time they kept swimming out farther and farther.” He glanced at Timothée. “You sure you want to hear this?”
“Yes. So far, it’s already better than your foot story, which was as entertaining as belly button lint.”
Ryker made a face but continued. “The more they were asked to return to the group, the farther they’d go. Finally, one yelled she had a cramp in her leg. Because I was a swimmer, I was voted to be the one to go see what the hell was going on. When I reached them, one dove and yanked at my trunks. Naturally, I grabbed the waistband. That left me in a bent angle in the water, which was enough for the other two to jump on my back and head to submerge me. In the process, my snorkel was ripped off, and a rogue riptide dragged me under. I was spinning and turning, and not long after became disoriented. I thought I was swimming to the surface but actually not. The next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the sand with paramedics pounding on my chest, forcing me to spit up a quarter of the ocean. They saved my life but cracked three ribs. No state championship for me.”
“Well, now that’s an entry on an edition of How Fucked Up Is Fucked Up? But how does your father tie in?”
“As I was being wheeled to X-ray, I overheard my father on the phone apologizing to his client for traumatizing his kids. After he hung up, he told my mother how embarrassed he was that eight-, eleven-, and twelve-year-old girls could punk an eighteen-year-old boy, and thank heaven for my sister, who hauled me to the surface. My mother went full-tilt ballistic on him. I’d never heard her raise her voice like that, let alone hit anyone. She’s only 5’1” and my dad’s 6’3”, but she slapped him hard enough to make his glasses fly across the room. The entire side of his face swelled up.”
“Your mom sounds like a firecracker.”
Ryker nodded. “She is. She has a bumper sticker on her car that says, ‘Never mess with mama bear.’”
“Did you swim in college?”
“I made the team, but by then I’d developed panic attacks every time I went underwater—kind of a fucked-up problem for a swimmer to have. So I went to therapy, and, of course, my dad thought that was a pussy move.”
“Sounds like a dick.”
“I understand why you’d think that. I’ve painted a pretty horrendous picture, but he’s not a bad guy. It took some time, but we worked through it. We’re in a much better place now.”
Timothée snorted. “Are you telling me or telling yourself?”
“You.”
“Then, if that’s true, why are you sensitive?”
Ryker sighed. “I still don’t feel like I’ve done that one thing to make him proud.”
“That’s not your job. Children aren’t their parents’ trophies.”
“I know that, but respect is something earned. I want to earn his.”
Timothée cocked his head and regarded Ryker. “I never understood that phrase. It implies that it’s okay to roll out of bed and disrespect someone.”
“How did you come up with that?”
“Why would anyone have to earn something that should be inherent? What right does anyone have to disrespect another?”
“That’s not what….” Ryker nodded, his lips pressed in a tentative smile. “You missed your calling. You should be in politics as much as you flip a script.”
“No, where I should be is in you. Why are we wasting time?”
“We have work to do.”
Timothée’s brows furrowed in the middle. “Like what?”
“I’d like to get some candid photos of you to upload—after the funeral, of course—to begin rebranding you.”
“You make me sound like product.”
“Athletes are products. You know that. It’s why you can be traded. People make money off you, and my job is to ensure you’re well compensated when they do.”
Timothée leaned back in his chair as the waitress arrived and placed his plate in front of him. “Photos, huh?”
17
Ryker
Ryker raised his brow as he watched Timothée effortlessly shove up the boom gate. “We’re not allowed to be here.”
“Sure we are. It’s public property.”
“They wouldn’t have the exit blocked if that were true.”
Timothée waved his hand and proceeded through. “That’s just legal stuff to set up a defense.”
“Defense against what?”
“In case anyone gets bitten by a gator or some weird shit.”
“What?” Ryker froze.
“Don’t pay that any mind. Gators don’t feed when it’s this cool.”
“Fantastic. First snakes and now alligators.”
Timothée turned back, took Ryker’s hand, and tugged. “C’mon. This is the canal. All the big gators stay out in the river.” He pointed west with his free hand. “The largest you’ll see here is a four-footer. I’ll protect you.”
“What are you going to do? Wrestle it?”
“No.” Timothée hiked his pant leg to reveal a holster strapped to his ankle.
“Oh my God!” Ryker wrenched his hand away. “What are you doing with that?”
“This is a conceal-carry state. I have a permit.”
Shaking his head, Ryker clenched his jaw. “No.”
“Why are you so squeamish now?”
“Because,” Ryker said, his voice elevated, “you have a”—although they were alone, he dropped to a decibel above a whisper—“gun.”
“And? I always have it.”
“Not the other night you didn’t.”
“I most certainly did.” H
e stepped closer to Ryker. “I don’t have a conceal permit in Louisiana, so I placed it on the front seat. Still legal.”
Speechless, Ryker shook his head again.
“Well, what do you want me to do about it? Chuck it in the river?”
“Oh, Timothée, this is not good.”
Timothée sighed. “Listen, I don’t want to argue about this. You said you wanted photos. The driftwood would make a scenic backdrop.” Once again, he clasped Ryker’s hand and tugged him forward. “Let’s go.”
“This better be some driftwood. Where is it?”
“Up yonder around the bend.”
Reluctantly, Ryker began walking, following Timothée in slow, measured steps and nervously scrutinizing the ripples in the water.
“Will you relax? No one has ever died of a gator attack on this sandbar. The worst that’s ever happened was a couple drunks got swallowed by the quicksand.”
Ryker’s lungs lurched hard in his chest. “There’s fucking quicksand?”
“Don’t go overreacting again. People make more of a fuss than necessary.”
“Timothée, people die in quicksand.”
“People die from breathing polluted air, so what’s your point?”
Ryker groaned.
“It’s nothing to be scared of. It’s just a little saturated sand and usually not that deep. Getting out of it isn’t that complicated.”
“Well, if it’s okay with you, I’d rather not find out.”
A peculiar expression flashed across Timothée’s face but vanished seconds later.
Ryker had seen that look before but had been unable to decipher it then as well as currently.
Uh-oh. What are you thinking?
“Let’s just get the pictures, okay?” Timothée approached a pile of bleached and mangled driftwood that was stacked to the height of his calves and stretched alongside an indention in a hill. He leaned against the wood and struck a pose, reminding Ryker that he was used to modeling professionally.
“A little less staged,” Ryker stated, retrieving his camera from his satchel. “These are supposed to look extemporaneous.”
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