Blood on the Rocks: A Slapshot Prequel (A Slapshot Prequel Trilogy Book 1)

by Myers, Heather C.

  Seraphina looked at this Gordon Stash, taking a mental picture of him in order to remember who he was. In terms of size, the man was colossal. He had the broadest shoulders Seraphina had ever seen on any living human being and he had to be at least six foot six at the very least. His wild curly black hair was hidden underneath his helmet, and from her sitting position, she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes. The moustache that he apparently was so well-known for rested just above his top lip like a sun-bathing caterpillar might and it only added to his intimidating presence. Seraphina was absolutely certain that if she threw on Stash’s jersey, it would probably reach her calves.

  And just like that, the man known for his fighting got into a scrap with another Shark. Even though she had been watching him, she couldn’t figure out what had caused the fight. Probably some words or something. But soon enough, both opponents tossed their gloves were on the ice, and Gordon extended that long arm in order to grab the Shark’s jersey before getting a couple of punches on him. The whistle was blown and this fight was broken up much quicker than Alec’s. Seraphina guessed it had something to do with Stash’s size, even though the match seemed relatively even.

  But it was Stash who was sent to the penalty box, which meant the Sharks now had a good opportunity to score on their power play.

  More defensemen than forwards now littered the ice, with Kyle Underwood being the only offensive player killing the penalty.

  Michael Thompson managed to stop a potential goal by dropping his body and sliding in front of the shot. The puck ricocheted off Thompson’s chest pad. Kyle moved to clear it, but he didn’t reach the puck fast enough. A Shark forward managed to get it around Kyle and passed it to his right wing who, because of Kyle’s offensive tactic, was left open. The right wing had enough time to settle the puck the down and shot it into the net.

  Sam Miller, filling in for Brandon Thorpe, appeared as though he didn’t even realize he had been shot on, let alone scored on.

  Seraphina knew that Brandon Thorpe, had he been on the ice, would have made that save. He just saw things no one could possibly see, making saves that should otherwise be goals. And she could tell by the distraught look on Miller’s face that he knew this as well.

  “Don’t let it get to you, kid,” Seraphina murmured under her breath. Miller was probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. He needed to keep his confidence up, needed to brush this off.

  The penalty ended abruptly, and play resumed. Seraphina kept glancing at the scoreboard as though it might change without her knowing. But it was still one to one.

  There was four minutes and fifty-seven seconds left in the first period when another fight broke out. But this time, it escalated so much and so quickly that no one knew for sure what had caused the fight and who had started it. However, it was obvious that it must have been between a Gull and a Shark, and their teammates deemed it serious enough to go out and defend their respective player. Though the linesmen and even the refs immediately skated over in order to break up the fight, it took some time before the brawl stopped and even longer to see who was responsible. It was deemed that Chad Westwicke, the Gulls’ defenseman, and a forward named Tory Russell from the Sharks, were credited with starting the fight, and both were sent to their own penalty box for a five-minute major. Because their penalties canceled each other out, neither team had to kill a penalty.

  Neither team scored by the end of the period. By that time, Seraphina was furious. They were throwing away a game because of stupid reasons. Jumping up from her seat, the young woman decided to have another talk with her team because this was getting to be ridiculous. The fighting, the injuries. She followed the tired players into the locker room. Henry Wayne, seeing her, nodded, as though to tell her the floor was hers. Once the room quieted, Seraphina began to speak.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” she asked them. Even though the question itself was rhetorical, she looked at her players as though she wanted some sort of explanation. “We can’t afford to have players coming into the regular season injured from stupid fights they had in the preseason. These games amount to nothing; they’re just practice. They provide an opportunity for Coach Wayne, Coach Stable, and I to assess just who gets to stay on the team and who doesn’t. There are thirty-two of you. I only need twenty-four of you. The only thing I’m assessing now is that you’re letting the Sharks get to you.”

  She paused, allowing herself a moment to take in a deep breath and release it through her lips.

  “I know we’re all upset about what happened to Ken,” she said in a quieter tone, “and what happened to Thorpe. I’ve said before and I’ll say it again: I don’t think Thorpe killed my grandfather, and until the police come to me, proving Thorpe’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, I will continue to support him and I will continue to have a spot for him on this team. But it better be a damn good team he comes back to. Yes, some fans will turn against Thorpe, against the Gulls for our united stance behind him while others will stay loyal. Other teams are going to give us shit for anything they can – our mascot is a seagull, for crying out loud – but we don’t play for anyone but ourselves. We’re the Seagulls, goddamn it. Go out there and play like one.”

  Seraphina clenched her jaw. That was all she really had to say. But there were a couple of things she needed to discuss with the head coach. In a whisper, she asked Henry if she could speak with him. After motioning for the assistant coach Clark Stable to take over the powwow, he led Seraphina to a secluded part of the locker room.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Sera,” he began, his grey eyes twinkling in amusement, “when you’re pissed, you make excellent speeches.”

  “Oh.” She waved the compliment away, feeling her face turn red. She wasn’t even sure she gave them, if she had any right to. But as the owner of the team, she felt that if she was pissed off, she had a right to let her players know about it. Especially since she probably wasn’t the only spectator who felt that way. “Actually, I need to ask you a question. Did my grandfather ever mention possibly trading Thorpe to you?”

  Though Seraphina had her own idea about the answer to this question, she thought she should cover all bases, just in case. Henry wasn’t only the head coach of the Gulls, but he was Papa’s close confidant as well.

  “No,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I heard the rumors though, but nothing from Ken directly. Which, to me, meant Ken wasn’t as certain about trading Thorpe as the press was making him out to be. If he planned on trading Thorpe at all.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Seraphina murmured. “What about selling the team?” It was his response to this question that Seraphina was most interested in.

  “That’s the funny thing,” Henry replied. “He mentioned that someone approached him about selling the team, but that he wasn’t going to do it. And that’s all he said about it.”

  “Was the person who approached him Alan?” She pushed her brows up. “Did he tell you?”

  “He didn’t tell me,” Henry said, shaking his head. “But it sounded more like... The way Ken spoke, I don’t think it was someone close to him. Maybe an acquaintance or something, but not family.”

  Seraphina began chewing on her bottom lip, offering a quiet thank you before she headed out of the locker room. There it was again, that feeling that something was starting to register, pieces were slowly starting to fall into place. But nothing was clicking. Not yet, anyway.

  Chapter 11

  The Friday morning sun shined brightly through the windows of her office as Seraphina slid into her chair. It was just after nine in the morning, and even though her meeting with Simon Spade wasn’t for a couple of hours, she decided to get to the office early in order to go over a couple more things she wanted to lock down. There was something about what Henry Wayne had told her about. Papa had mentioned someone came to him about selling the team, but that he wasn’t going to do it.

  Then why had an unnamed source gone to the papers and said that Papa was goi
ng to sell the team? Who was this source anyways? Was it possible that it was the same person Henry mentioned, the one who went to Papa directly?

  Henry said it didn’t sound like Papa was too acquainted with the guy, whoever it was. But that Papa had to have known him. Papa didn’t take advice from strangers or meet with anyone off the street. Not that he didn’t mingle with the public, but he liked to focus on the Gulls, especially when it was hockey season. And even if some random person did advise him to sell the team, it wasn’t likely he’d take it seriously to the point where he mentioned it to Henry.

  Why hadn’t he mentioned it to her? Or Katella? Even though they weren’t completely invested in the team like he was, selling the franchise would have affected the family and Seraphina was certain he would tell them about that decision before officially make it, and way before telling whoever that unnamed source was.

  Unless of course that source was Alan.

  But for whatever reason, Seraphina didn’t think it was Alan. Alan had always been vocal about his father selling the team. It was highly doubtful he would go to the press as some anonymous person when they would probably pay him more if they could quote him directly. The fact that after Papa’s death, he had no problem being videotaped coming out against Seraphina just added to this point. Alan was too prideful to hide behind a safety source. And, as much as Alan wanted to sell the team, even Seraphina knew that Alan wouldn’t cross Papa while Papa was still alive. If Alan wanted to get on Papa’s good side, he would keep his mouth shut to the press about how disagreed with his father about how Papa was managing the team. And Alan was always trying to get on Papa’s good side, always trying to get just one last hand out and of course he’d pay Papa back.

  Yeah, right. Papa learned his lesson the hard way, as did Seraphina and her sister. But Alan wasn’t the source. Not in Seraphina’s mind. The past couple of days, Seraphina had been wondering just who this mysterious source was, but for the life of her, she couldn’t put her finger on it, even though she knew, she knew, that she should know who it was. The puzzle was almost pieced together, save for the most important parts of it. And it seemed the more she tried to figure out what those important parts were, the more she felt herself going in circles, learning nothing new about the situation, and running into the same dead end on a consistent basis.

  So maybe it would be best to start from left field and see where that took her.

  First and foremost, Seraphina doubted that Brandon Thorpe even factored into her grandfather’s death. The fact that he was demanding more money just happened to fall during the wrong time. If she was a betting girl, Seraphina would put her money on Papa potentially selling the team as motive for his death.

  Which would reinstate Alan as the primary suspect in Papa’s murder since Alan had no qualms telling people that he thought the team should be sold. Of course, he wouldn’t go to the press, but back when Alan was still speaking to his nieces, he had mentioned his opinion to both sisters. They nodded and shrugged their shoulders because they couldn’t actually concentrate on Papa’s hockey team when Katella was just starting her events coordination business and Seraphina was fulfilling her last quarter at UCI before graduating.

  They should have paid more attention to him. But it wasn’t like it was the first time had had an opinion about something that was certain he was right about. And then there was the alleged fight people witnessed between Papa and Alan in Papa’s office. Seraphina hadn’t heard if it escalated to violence, but Alan was heard shouting quite a bit before storming off.

  But did selling the team guarantee Alan any money? Seraphina didn’t know and Papa never said.

  Would Alan really kill Papa if Papa decided not to sell the team? Obviously Alan hadn’t been familiar with Papa’s last will and testament or he’d have known that Alan wouldn’t be getting anything except that one hundred dollars unless Seraphina decided she wanted to sell the team. Which meant that Alan wasn’t getting anything, really. So killing Papa wouldn’t have helped his situation.

  Alan, though, was an out-of-work construction worker. He was constantly making promises that required a good deal of financial backing, gambled a little less than frequently and yearned to have the prestigious, wealthy, and respected reputation his father had. Which meant he had the time and the tool to knock Papa over the head. But there was a catch. Seraphina highly doubted that, like Brandon Thorpe, Alan wouldn’t have needed to actually strangle Papa. Alan might have smoked and was a recovering – at times – alcoholic, but he was stronger than his father. If he hit Papa with some kind of tool or a metal pole or something, he could produce enough force to kill Papa. Strangulation wasn’t necessary. And as much as Alan wanted lots of money in return for minimal effort, and even if he got so enraged that he hit Papa over the head with a weapon, Seraphina didn’t think Alan could actually strangle Papa.

  But who really knew? People had sides of them they were apt to hide. So Alan killing Papa was possible, just not probable. At least in Seraphina’s mind. The fact that Seraphina kept going back to was that extra push to kill Papa. The strangulation. The killer then had to be someone Papa’s age.

  “What about Henry?” Serraphina asked in disbelief.

  She sat up straighter, now that she decided to entertain the thought that perhaps Papa’s closest friend was actually responsible for Papa’s death. Again, it was possible, wasn’t it? Not only was Henry around Papa’s age which would mean they were equally matched in terms of strength, but Henry had a motive if the Gulls were sold: Henry Wayne might be out of a job. And Seraphina knew that, like her grandfather, Henry was especially invested in the Newport Beach Seagulls and loved coaching the team. He used to play for the Los Angeles Stars, and after Papa forgave him, he hired Henry to replace the previous coach, and the two remained close for the past six years. Henry had to work to give purpose to his life. That Seraphina knew because Papa was the same way. Yes, they loved their family and they loved spending time with their family, but they liked having something to keep their mind occupied. Both men were proud of this team.

  Papa mentioned to Henry that someone was interested in getting him to sell the team. Even though Papa had reassured his friend that he wasn’t planning on going through with it, maybe Henry didn’t believe him. Maybe he read the papers and saw this source also saying that Ken wanted to sell the team and didn’t actually believe Ken.

  The problem was, that didn’t sound like Henry. Those who knew Papa knew that he would never lie about something, and when he made a decision, he followed through with it. Henry had no reason not to believe Papa if Papa said he had no interest in selling the team. They had a close, trusting friendship and Papa was always honest, even brutally so. And Henry knew that.

  Which meant Henry had no motive for killing Papa if he still had a job.

  It still bothered Seraphina that it was still possible that Henry could possibly have done it. But she didn’t want to assume anything until she knew it for sure.

  Who else could it possibly be?

  Before Seraphina could sift through her memories to pick out another possible candidate to think about, a knock interrupted her.

  “Yeah, come in,” she called, glancing at the clock on her computer.

  9:44 in the morning?

  The door opened and Brandon Thorpe walked in. Beyond her control, Seraphina felt herself straighten and her eyes went wide. Wasn’t he supposed to be in police custody? Well, technically speaking, he had been brought in for questioning. Which meant he could probably leave whenever he wanted. So it wasn’t all surprising that he was “out” but what did surprise Seraphina was that he was here.

  She gestured at the chair across from her desk. “May I help you?” she asked, folding her hands on the surface of the desk.

  He looked fine. Not that Seraphina expected him to look not fine or anything, but who knew how long he had been at the station, in the interrogation room, sitting in one of those uncomfortable seats with cops coming at him, asking him question
s over and over again. She kind of felt bad for him.

  Looking at Thorpe, Seraphina noticed that he maybe looked a little bit exhausted but nowhere near the haggard mess she’d no doubt look like had she gone through the same ordeal. He was wearing fitting grey sweatpants and a green t-shirt that wasn’t too tight, but managed to sculpt his torso. It also happened to bring out those pale green eyes. His dark brown hair looked a little disheveled and maybe there were tiny bags underneath his eyes, but he still looked...

  Well, since Seraphina couldn’t breathe at the moment for a slew of different reasons, breath-taking would probably suffice.

  He took the offered seat, sliding into it with a grace that was tainted with controlled strength, and crossed his leg so his right ankle rested on his left knee. For whatever reason, Seraphina found this quality to be incredibly attractive and masculine; her Uncle Ryan would always cross his legs similar to that of a woman, and this always made her feel somewhat uncomfortable due to how feminine it was. Not that she had a prejudice against those who did it but she preferred the way Brandon crossed his legs.

  “Are you okay?” Seraphina couldn’t help but ask. It was hard for her to believe that she actually had a conscious thought about the way Brandon Thorpe crossed his legs and that she was actually attracted to it, and she needed to say something in order to get those ridiculous thoughts out of her mind.

  “What? Yeah.” He nodded his head, his wrists hanging limply from the armrests. “I was released from police custody last night. Well, I guess since I was never officially arrested, I could have left whenever I wanted, but I just” – he raised his arm to reach back and cup the back of his neck – “I just wanted to cooperate. When they realized they didn’t have enough to get a warrant to arrest me, they let me go.”