“Spell that.”
Ass. “Unplanned. Natural.”
Timothée flashed a toothy grin. “Yeah, like I’d really come to a sandbar wearing these shoes.” He lifted his leg and rotated his foot to display his designer loafers.
Ryker aimed the camera. “You probably would, though.”
Timothée glanced at his shoes and shrugged. “Maybe. They are water-resistant. Actually….” He tapped his chin with his index finger. “They’re gulper eel. Cost me an arm, leg, and both kidneys, but the fit is like butter. I think the eels are about extinct.”
Ryker lowered the camera. “And you have them on your feet?”
Timothée’s face twisted. “Where else am I supposed to wear them? On my head?”
“Nowhere if they’re endangered. Why would you buy something that’s at risk of being extinct?”
“Well, I can’t very well get them once they are, now can I?”
“Oh my giddy aunt! Please never say that to anyone else.”
“Now what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Ryker muttered, refocusing the camera. Because you’re about to make a hefty contribution to the Endangered and Protected Wildlife Association. “Your shoes are going to sit this one out. Say cheese.”
“Pule.”
“What?”
“Pule. It’s a cheese. You never heard of it?”
“No. Is it on an extinction list, too?”
“Smart-aleck. It’s made using donkey milk.”
A robust laugh burst from Ryker.
“What’s funny?” Timothée asked.
“You know that saying, ‘You are what you eat’?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, isn’t it fitting that you eat jackass cheese?”
Timothée scrunched his nose. “That isn’t funny.”
Ryker laughed harder. “Yes it is.”
“Hey!” a voice yelled from several yards away.
Both Timothée and Ryker glanced over their shoulders to see a uniformed man holding a bullhorn and approaching at a rapid rate.
“Harbor patrol,” Timothée huffed, hopping off the woodpile. “Run!” He sprinted in the direction that they came.
“Shit,” Ryker muttered, grabbing his bag and bolting behind Timothée. He’s so going to get me fired—if he doesn’t get me thrown in the slammer first.
Timothée dived in the back seat of the SUV waiting in the cul-de-sac. “Drive!” he yelled to the driver after Ryker tumbled in after.
“Why did you run?” Ryker inquired breathlessly.
“You ran.”
“Because you did.”
“Monkey see, monkey do?” Timothée settled onto the seat with an affable grin and shut his eyes.
“You’re shifting blame now?”
“It was a throw-and-go situation.”
“What?”
“When you pull the pin on a grenade, you throw that son of a bitch. You don’t hang around to see what’s what.”
Un-fucking-real. “Timothée, this is not appropriate behavior.”
“It’s not a problem unless you say it is.” Like a precocious child, Timothée stuck out his tongue in response.
This grown man literally stuck his tongue out at me. Brat! “I mean it. You can’t—”
“Phone.”
“What?”
“Your phone is ringing.”
Ryker’s attention snapped from aiding and abetting to his ringing cell.
Lesley. Damn.
“Les—”
“I have one question for you,” Lesley interrupted. “Why is Toby Harrelson reporting that he has an inside source claiming Timothée is checking into a rehabilitation center to deal with his use of performance-enhancing drugs?”
Ryker gasped. “He’s what?” Out of all the allegations and rumors surrounding Timothée, Ryker found this one to be the most far-fetched. Anyone who had followed Timothée’s career had seen his natural development. He hadn’t shot to superstardom overnight. His stats were a slow but steady increase from his time in college until present. Plus, he’d played on a team loaded with talent, and that pushed him to be better. His teammates had been his teachers. Besides, Timothée’s ego was too colossal to use PEDs. He’d consider it as a sign of weakness.
“What are you doing down there? You’re supposed to be atop of things. If you can’t handle—”
“I’ll handle it,” he responded, sounding like a broken record.
“You’d better,” Lesley snapped. “Because right now, you’re proving every doubt—not only that I have but Edgar and everyone in this agency, too—of your capability to manage an important and high-profile client such as Timothée.”
Harsh. Please don’t hold back how you feel on my account.
“I stuck my neck out for you,” she continued.
“And I appreciate it.”
“No, Rye, earn it. I don’t owe you anything—especially not my head in a guillotine—and neither does Edgar. But you owe this agency, and you’ll be treated like everyone else. Screw this up and there’s no need of you coming back.”
The line went dead before Ryker could respond.
Wonderful! Nothing like the threat of unemployment to perk up the day. He looked over at Timothée, who appeared to be drifting off to sleep.
“Timothée, look at me.”
Slowly, Timothée peeled his lids open, his almond-colored eyes questioning and challenging. However, his voice was soft and bordering on intimate. “Don’t start in again about that Baywatch five-o.”
“No.” Although, Ryker did intend to have a lengthy discussion with him about that later, but that matter had been preempted by the latest situation. “I’m going to need you to pee in a cup.”
“Huh?” Perplexed and vexed lines marred the outer corners of Timothée’s eyes as his lips pinched into a petulant pout and then evened to a stiff line. “I may be standing in the miscellaneous line for hell, but I never got freaky with whizz in a goblet.”
“I meant take a drug test, sicko.” Under other circumstances, Ryker would have laughed at Timothée’s response. Instead, he braced himself, not knowing how far south Timothée’s reaction would go when he informed him of the developing situation and the solution to rectify matters. “There’s no gentle way to put this, but there’s been some allegations.”
Timothée snort-laughed. “Like what? I’m doing steroids now or something?”
“Actually… yeah.”
“What?” Timothée snarled, his voice a deep rumble from his chest. The spark of light in his eyes dimmed as they narrowed and a dark cloud hovered there. His nostrils flared.
And we’re off. “Providing documented proof is the easiest way to make this go away.”
“It’s an invasion of my privacy. Don’t you think the league would have suspended me if this were true?”
“Yes, but—”
“But, my ass! I work for years and this is where it leads?”
“It’s a small concession to make a potentially larger problem vanish.”
“What gives people the right? You don’t hear me demanding you to take a drug test.”
Ryker tilted his head. “Do you want me to?”
“To reveal what? An overabundance of vitamin D?”
Ryker winced, not knowing if that was meant as a compliment or insult. If he was wagering, he’d bet the latter.
“It’s not small, nor is it a concession. It’s a complete invasion of privacy.”
“The league does randoms all the time.”
“Yeah, randoms. This is because you think I’m dirty.”
“I don’t think that at all. As your agent, it’s better to get ahead of the story.”
“It’s always ‘getting ahead’ with you. According to you, I’m perpetually in the rear.”
“Think. What will look better? You volunteering to clear your name or the Players’ Association demanding it? A quick response will show you didn’t have time to flush anything out of your system. The matter gets squ
ashed.”
“Until the next time someone decides to bring up some bullshit allegations. Then what? I slit my wrists?”
Ryker couldn’t argue with that. “We’ll deal with them as they come. For now, you have to trust me again. I know what I’m doing. And if you do this, we won’t discuss the debacle that happened on the sandbar.”
Timothée muttered incomprehensibly but nodded—kinda.
“Thank you.” Ryker sighed, relieved, then started scrolling the contact list on his phone to schedule the test before Timothée changed his mind. Then a thought struck him, and he chewed his inner jaw. Timothée wouldn’t like it, but it had to be done.
Round two. Fight.
After he completed his phone call, Ryker stared into Timothée’s eyes that were brimming with anger but edged with disappointment and sadness. He hated arguing with him. Ryker wanted so much to ease the pain and distress instead of adding to it. Timothée didn’t deserve this.
Subconsciously, Ryker had shifted into Timothée’s personal space. Before he realized what he was doing, his hand stroked the other man’s stubbled jaw as his eyes dipped to his mouth.
Timothée’s eyebrow arched. “You contemplating doing something?”
“Nah,” Ryker replied, inching closer. His body surged with energy. “I’ve already made up my mind.” He didn’t attempt to rationalize anything. The switch to the logical portion of his brain clicked off. Instead, he followed his body’s impulse. Leaning in, he slid his other hand across Timothée’s waist and around to his lower back. The thump of his heart drummed loudly in his ears as he brushed his lips against Timothée’s, easy and unrushed.
“And what’s that?”
Ryker whispered across Timothée’s lips. “I’m going to take care of you.” At all costs, God help me. “And you’re going to play nice with the lab technician and not give him any shit when he plucks a couple strands from these shimmering locks for a hair sample.” He twisted his index finger in the hair above Timothée’s ear. “Yes, a hair sample,” he added when Timothée’s mouth parted to protest. “You’ve nothing to hide, do you? Cos if you’re worried about something, I need to know.”
Timothée’s face twisted. “I don’t use steroids,” he grumbled.
“A follicle test will prove you didn’t recently dry out, and no one will be expecting it. It’s a power move to not only dispel current rumors but to quell any doubt that you possess any fear addressing your accusers.”
Timothée opened his mouth to protest again, considered, and then closed it.
Ryker moved back. He could smell anger radiating from Timothée. Wonderful. Not only would he be subjugated to dealing with Timothée’s pissy attitude now, but he also could bank on not getting laid tonight as promised.
18
Timothée
Drug test. Timothée skated across the ice, the same sour scowl that had been gracing his face for the last day and half still plastered there as he stared down his opponent. I don’t do PEDs. Is that what’s in your mind? Let me show you. He cross-checked a defender… left winger… hell, someone wearing enemy colors. Who are we playing again? It didn’t matter. He hit them and hit them hard. Satisfying. He didn’t care about the whistle or being sent to the sin bin again—although he wasn’t sure why. He yelled at the referee. He’d hear about that later. It was a clean hit. Okay, no, it wasn’t. But so what? The guy had been in his way. He should have moved.
“Wuss!” he shouted over his shoulder, entering the penalty box to serve his time. He plonked down on the bench beside Benoit. Boo, hiss, hiss! Damn whiny-ass crowd. He snatched a towel from the shelf and dried his face.
Whoosh!
Son of a—
Timothée pounced to his feet as the wetness soaked though the back of his sweater and base layer to his spine. Spinning, he caught a glimpse of the fan who’d dumped the jumbo slushy on him bounding over the plexiglass barrier separating him from the crowd. He would have thought it was an accident and that the plexiglass had given away, but the fist flying at his face was no mistake. What kind of deranged hockey bullshit is this? Timothée blocked the hit but not the spit. Bull’s-eye! Square between the lookers. Timothée swung, connecting solidly with flesh, but not before the fan—or rather anti-fan—grabbed the front of his sweater and dragged them both to the floor.
“Get off me, Luca,” Timothée hollered, swinging multiple times, despite being on top. He drew back to punch again but was yanked backward. “You want a piece of me, too?”
Oh.
Two referees were pulling him out of the box and onto the ice. First you put me in. Now you take me out. You put your left foot in, you take your left foot out, then you shake it all about. Make up your damn mind.
Rushing inside, arena security tackled the box invader. Did I call him Luc…? Nah. Couldn’t have. After a brief scuffle, security handcuffed the man and lead him away.
“Inside, Croneau,” the linesman ordered once the spectator had been removed.
Timothée sneered. “It’s like ‘Ring around the fucking Rosie’ at this bitch.” He looked up at the crowd, who were on their feet. Oh, now you want to cheer that someone tried to kick my ass.
“Nice punch,” Benoit congratulated him.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Ryker
In the stands, Ryker covered his gaping mouth with his hand as he witnessed the carnage happening in the penalty box. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
And right on cue, here’s the peanut gallery to remind me that I’m fucking up like I’m the reason that snob knob pole-vaulted over the plexi. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.
Dropping his head, he swiped the phone screen. “I know,” he answered as a greeting. “I’ll handle it.”
Guess I’ll won’t be getting any sleep tonight.
Timothée
Timothée exited the locker room with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Dressed in a sleek peak lapel double-face knee-length cashmere coat and Venezia leather shoes, all he needed was a cloud of smoke to look like he was in a music video. Spotting Ryker leaned against the corridor wall with his arms folded, a smile instantly flickered on his face before transforming into a frown.
“You’re here to fuss at me, aren’t you?” he accused.
“No, I’m here to remind you that you’re not to beat up fans.”
“He wasn’t my fan.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Hey, he hopped his happy ass into the box. That’s my space.” He squared his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Tim—”
“Anyone in the box gets what they get. And he swung first, plus spit in my face.” He began walking toward the exit.
“Which is the only reason why you’re not being fined.”
“And you know this how?”
Ryker cracked his knuckles. “I made some phone calls, and you’re going to issue an apology tomorrow.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are. It posts on your social media at 10:00 a.m. Too bad, so sad, you don’t have the password.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because someone has to take the high road.”
“And that’s me?”
Ryker nodded. “That’s you.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You’ll express remorse that the situation occurred and hope that the fa… spectator recovers quickly from his broken jaw.”
“I broke his—”
“Jaw,” Ryker completed. “Yes, you did.”
Oops. He hadn’t meant to do that. “But I only hit him once, and it wasn’t even that hard.”
“Dude, you were wailing on him. The refs could barely get you off.”
Did I? “I reckon. Release your statement.”
“Your statement.”
Timothée pulled open the heavy metal door and stepped out into the chilly night air. The temperature had dropped, and he turned his shoulder against the wind. His driver was waiting ou
tside the car and opened the door. Before he slid in, Ryker caught his arm.
“Timothée, I’m concerned. Playing tonight was a mistake. I think you should take some time off.”
“Don’t you tell me I’m a mistake.”
“What? No. I didn’t say that.”
“Just like everyone else,” Timothée muttered, getting in the car and slamming the door.
“Timothée!” Ryker yelled at the window.
“Let’s go,” he ordered his driver, who climbed behind the wheel.
No one’s taking hockey away from me.
19
Ryker
“Timothée, you can’t stay in there,” Ryker urged with little conviction as he knocked on the bedroom door. Apparently Timothée could stay in there as long as he wanted since it had already been over an hour of him refusing to come out despite Ryker’s and Lesley’s pleas. Ryker had to call hotel management to get into the suite, which led to Timothée promptly shutting himself into the bedroom. Initially, he’d barked grunts and grumbles through the door. But for the last half hour, he’d been unresponsive. “The car is here.”
Lesley cast Ryker a scathing glare. “I can’t believe you allowed this to happen.”
Of course Timothée would pull a stunt like this when Lesley’s here. “Again, not my fault,” he uttered as he knocked again. “He was supposed to be getting dressed.” In the navy suit minus the flashy neon green loafers. Even if they managed to coax him out in time, it remained a coin toss of what he’d be wearing. But hell, Ryker would be satisfied if he wore Bermuda shorts, a flannel shirt, and a straw skimmer hat as long as he unlocked the door.
“He must have said something, given some kind of warning.”
Yeah. He slammed the door before he locked it.
Knock, knock.
Both Ryker and Lesley whipped their heads over their shoulders and stared at the suite door.
“Must be the driver,” Ryker stated, trekking across the room. He’d already explained they were running late. He’d think funeral home courtesy drivers would be used to eccentric behaviors by grief-stricken family members. It couldn’t be that he had another funeral because the burial package Ryker had purchased on behalf of Timothée included four hours of chauffeured services. Of course, Timothée had balked at using a driver other than his own, but he was going to be charged for it either way, and Ryker didn’t believe in unnecessary waste. However, he could understand the chauffeur being annoyed at having to wait this length of time.
Penalty Kill Page 13