Fair Play (Hat Trick, Book 1)

by Samantha Wayland

  “Well, yeah, I’ve heard talk,” Garrick said, “but mostly just that he’s an asshole. I’ve never heard of him actually being in trouble with the law. What do you mean by dirty?”

  “Letting drugs run through his bars, letting all manner of transaction take place in his OTB shops. Money laundering. Underground clubs. Did you know his second cousin owns most of the strip clubs in New Brunswick and a bunch more in Quebec?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “He’s sixteen. He opened his first club when he was four. Quite an accomplishment. A cousin on the other side of his family is the CEO of that child’s corporation.”

  “Jesus. Why bother with the ruse?”

  “He likes to keep his nose clean. It helps not to have your name on anything when the shit hits the fan. And it’s not just bad business. Two years ago, a dancer at the Foxy Lady in Fredericton told the RCMP that there was a vast business operating in the basement of the club. When the Mounties raided the next morning, all they found was empty desks and scraps of shredded paper. The girl disappeared that night and was never seen again.”

  The hair on the back of Garrick’s neck bristled. “Oh shit.”

  “Yes, precisely. Total shit. So, no, I don’t want to sell him the damn Ice Cats, but it’s not going to be easy to prevent given my public announcement to solicit buyers and his more-than-reasonable offer.”

  Garrick put his head back against the headrest and rubbed his eyes hard. “This is bad.”

  “I’m sorry, Garrick. I truly am.”

  He didn’t know the half of it.

  “Look,” Reese continued, “I’ll do what I can to stall the process. Drag my feet on the paperwork, be unavailable for meetings. I can’t stretch it out forever, but maybe long enough for a better bid to come in.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’ll accept it. Quickly. And do whatever is in my power to avoid a bidding war. It may not help. Something tells me Robert Kramer wants the Ice Cats and is willing to pay a premium.”

  “How much was his bid?” The question was rude but Garrick needed to know what it was going to take to save his team.

  The number Reese quoted made him queasy.

  Savannah sat at her computer staring at her updated résumé. Closing that window, she read again the job description glowing on her screen.

  It was a long shot. A one in a million. She could only imagine the pile of eligible candidates who had already put their names in for consideration. The countless more who would follow.

  What the hell? It couldn’t hurt to try.

  With false confidence, she worked up a new version of her cover letter and attached her résumé in the wizard provided. Her bravado waivered as she stared at the SUBMIT button and fingered the button on her mouse, hesitating to take the last step.

  She wanted the job. But she was also shocked to discover she didn’t want to leave Moncton. She’d just started to settle in and make friends. She’d miss Rhian. And Alexei and Mike.

  Garrick.

  She stood, walked to her window, and looked out onto the street. A dark SUV idled in front of her stoop, its tinted windows too dark for her to see in. She peered closer, cupping her hands to the glass for a better view. The SUV drove off quickly.

  Jesus. Sometimes the universe sent messages. She listened.

  But first she checked the locks on her doors and windows and snapped the curtains closed.

  Resolved, she sat at her computer and rechecked everything she’d entered. Seeing no mistakes, she clicked SUBMIT.

  She stared at the confirmation screen for a long time.

  The Boston Bruins thank you for submitting your information for the position of Athletic Trainer. A member of our candidate selection team will follow up with you in the next two weeks.

  Garrick sat with his mouth hanging open, staring at his old friend Jack Chevalier. Jack stared back, his bright blue eyes amused.

  The team meeting, the phone call with Reese, Bobby’s fucking attitude in the locker room, all followed by tonight’s game on autopilot in spite of his intention to play his best. Now midnight had come and gone and he was sitting in Quigley’s Bar, around the corner from where he and Jack had grown up.

  “Dude, are you the only person in this town who doesn’t know?” Jack laughed, running his fingers through his thick black hair and shaking his head.

  “I guess I am.”

  Jack looked around them again, for the tenth time at least.

  “Garrick, the guy runs all the books in town. Sports, horses, fights, elections, celebrity deaths. If you can bet on it, he’s running a game.” Jack paused to search the faces of their fellow patrons again. They’d chosen a bar Robert Kramer didn’t own, there was no one sitting in the tables around them, and it was late—almost last call—but still Jack wouldn’t stop checking.

  “He can’t own a fucking hockey team if he’s betting on sports or profiting from people who are,” Garrick said in disbelief.

  Jack gave him the pitying look his naïveté warranted. “Yeah, dude, which is why it’s all under the table. He can’t exactly advertise that he’s making big coin every time his son throws a game.”

  An anvil landed in Garrick’s gut. “What?”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t have to tell you it’s really not possible for one guy to fuck up a whole hockey game, but he sure does help it along sometimes. Don’t you ever wonder why in some games Bobby is as sweet as pie and in others he’s starting fights and picking up penalties like it’s his job?”

  Garrick stared at Jack. Numb.

  “It is his job, Garrick. He’s so far up his dad’s ass, so desperate to keep his access to the treasury, he’d sell his own mother as polar bear food.”

  Garrick’s throat was dry, his chest tight. He chugged the rest of his beer, hoping to ease the tension. It immediately tried to come back up again.

  Robert Kramer couldn’t own the Ice Cats. Not just because Garrick would lose his job. Or because Savannah would have to walk away from hers. Robert Kramer would screw this team, each and every one of the players, the management, the arena staff. The town.

  Garrick scrubbed a palm over his face and rose to his feet. He carefully masked the ripple of pain stabbing his nuts as his groin pull reminded him why it was important to stretch after the game and not run straight to a cold bar to sit on a rock hard seat.

  “Thanks, Jack. It’s been educational.”

  Jack nodded. “Sorry to be the one to have to tell you. Though, if anyone asks, we talked about beer and hockey. Nothing else.”

  “Understood. You working this week?”

  Jack eyed him. “Yeah, I work every week. It’s not like I can afford a lot of vacations. Not to mention I’m not allowed to leave the country.”

  Garrick grimaced. Jack was a bartender at the Brunswicker Ale House, one of Kramer’s many establishments. He’d had the job since getting out of prison five years before and Garrick had harbored the belief that Kramer couldn’t be that big an asshole if he were willing to hire a con right out on his parole.

  Jack deserved a good job. He and Garrick had gone to high school together, and a few short months before what would have been Jack’s graduation from Université de Moncton, he’d been caught helping his old man rob a liquor store. Not that Jack had known he was abetting a felony while he sat in his car, waiting for his dad to come out with a six pack. When his dad had come out empty-handed but for the wad of cash and the gun shoved in his belt, Jack had panicked and driven his father away.

  They’d been arrested within an hour, long before Jack could do the right thing and call the cops on his own father. A judge decided to make an example of Jack for these fleeting moments of decidedly poor judgment and sentenced him to five years. Since then, Jack had kept his nose clean and tried damn hard not to stir the pot. Garrick wouldn’t jeopardize that.

  Garrick clapped him on the shoulder as they stepped out of the bar and turned toward their cars. “I might poke around a little. You can pretend
you’ve never seen me before.”

  “Nah,” Jack said. “Stick as close to the truth as we can. I can’t help you, but I’m not going to tell you I don’t wish someone would take that man down a peg or two. I’d like to see him survive a week in the joint. Fucking idiot. He treats people like they’re meat, dumb animals he’s forced to deal with.”

  “You see him do a lot of business?”

  “Yeah, sure, but at the Brunswicker it’s all on the up and up. The mayor comes for lunch, sometimes with Kramer. We’ve got a bunch of cops who come in after shift. You know the drill. And anyway, no way I’m going to witness shit and not report it.”

  Garrick nodded.

  “Look, if I get wind of anything, a place to look, a time to be somewhere, I’ll let you know. Some of the other bartenders and bar-backs move between properties. I’ll see what I can get.”

  “No, man, not worth it,” Garrick said immediately. “I appreciate the offer, but do not stick your neck out on this.”

  Jack shrugged. “We’ll see.” He stopped to unlock his truck. “I’ll see you around?”

  “Yeah. Stop by the house for a beer when you get a chance.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Garrick sighed. Jack always said that, and he’d never once done it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Savannah sprinted down the long corridor beneath the arena. The sound of her feet striking the concrete a hollow echo. Heart pounding, she ran as faster, gasping for breath, senses tingling. He was getting closer. He was going to catch her soon.

  She didn’t need to look to know it was Bobby who chased her. Whose big ugly hands were reaching for her as she darted around a corner.

  Now she was on the ice, her skates a natural extension of her legs as she pumped them to gain speed, to swing around behind the net in a desperate attempt to put something, anything, between her and Bobby.

  Garrick was calling. She could hear his ringtone—Thunderstruck by AC/DC. Even as she made the dash for the other net, trying to keep ahead of Bobby, she wondered why the hell he was calling her when she needed him here. Now.

  With a start, Savannah sat up in her bed and stared at her alarm clock.

  2:12 AM

  Flopping onto her side, she groped for her phone and managed to hit ANSWER a moment before the last notes of AC/DC’s classic arena jam played out and voicemail took over.

  “Hello?” She sounded drunk and tired.

  “Hi.” He sounded good. Way too good. But tired.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.

  “Me too. I sent out my résumé today.”

  “Good.”

  Perversely, it irritated her that he was so fine with that.

  “I hate it,” he said after a while, “but I’m glad you did it. You need to get out if this happens.”

  “When, Garrick. Not if. I hate to say it—”

  “I know. I’ll be gone too. Done with hockey.”

  He said it calmly, but she knew. For her it was a job change, for him the end of a career.

  “You should start your own business. Consulting or something.” She rolled onto her back and stared up at her ceiling.

  “Yeah?” He sounded less than convinced.

  “I’m serious, Garrick. The business plan was great. I had no idea that profits could be invested outside the sport and all that stuff about capital and whatever. You know what you’re doing.”

  Silence stretched on long enough that she wondered if they’d been disconnected.

  “Thanks.” His voice was a deep rumble down the phone line.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I wish I could fix this,” he said.

  “No brilliant ideas on that?”

  “Sure. I got one. Know anyone who wants to buy a hockey team?”

  She sighed. “Would it do any good?”

  “Actually, it might.” Garrick told her about his phone call with Reese. It wasn’t really much of a hope, but it was something. Then he filled her in on the conversation with his friend Jack. Goosebumps sprung up over her arms and neck.

  “That’s really bad,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah. It really is.”

  The next day Savannah sat at the desk in her office and stared at the wall.

  Did she know anyone who wanted to buy a hockey team?

  No. Maybe. She sighed. Probably not. It was a long shot.

  She closed her eyes and plunked her elbow on the desk, her forehead in her palm. She pictured Garrick out on the ice. Sitting in her hot tub. Walking her to her car. She remembered how Alexei and Mike had teased her about the little index card fitness plans she liked to hand out. She was sure she’d spotted an NHL scout at last night’s game, taking notes and pictures every time Rhian was on the ice.

  She had to at least try.

  Picking up her phone, she hit the speed dial on the first of two phone calls she needed to make.

  Hours later Savannah was puttering around her office, cleaning up the usual mountain of post-game detritus. She grimaced when Bobby stalked into the room.

  Her last appointment of the day. To say she hoped it would be quick and painless was a gross understatement. He caught her gaze with his beady-eyed stare. She had to fight back a shiver.

  She’d noticed during his pre-game visit that his usual anger had been replaced with a smug satisfaction that made her want to slap his face. And leave town.

  Forcing herself to remain professional, she rolled the wheelie cart loaded with tape, bandages, and various scissors to her table. She turned to Bobby and braced herself, stifling a growl when she saw her chair sat empty. As usual, he stood with his hips against her table, arms crossed, and stared down at her.

  Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him.

  Savannah shoved her scissors in her back pocket and went to work on his elbow. Or at least she tried. He kept his arms tight to his chest, refusing to move his limbs until she was forced to tug them apart and repeatedly reposition them.

  It was ridiculous. So fucking stupid she actually smiled. Bobby Kramer was a fucking baby.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked softly.

  She probably should have been concerned by his silky tone, so uncharacteristic, but she was too fed up to care.

  “Nothing.” She put his arm where she needed it and grabbed her scissors, seriously considering cutting through perfectly good and reusable bindings to speed the process of removing them.

  “You’re going to learn to respect your betters, Savannah Morrison.”

  “Hunh,” she snorted. She sure didn’t see any betters right now.

  She refused to back away when he leaned into her, his breath hot on the side of her face.

  “I’m going to own you. I’m going to own this whole fucking team. You’ll come around when you see what I have to offer. What I can take away. Like your job, your reputation. You’ll never work in hockey again.”

  Savannah kept working, even as her blood boiled. She ripped off the last piece of tape, leaning to the side to give herself some space while she tossed it into the trash. Relief flooded her when she saw Mike Erdo in the hallway. His back was to the door, but he was well within shouting distance.

  Standing straight, she forced Bobby to back off and stared him right in the eyes. “You’re a bully, Bobby. Nothing but a stupid grinder. And I would no more work for losers like you and your father than I would sell myself on a street corner.”

  Bobby’s eyes bulged, his face flushing scarlet.

  “Now,” she continued, “shut the fuck up and stand there while I finish.” She didn’t try to disguise her sneer as she looked him over. “You’ll never get anything from me, Bobby Kramer. Not. A. Damn. Thing. And you sure as hell don’t have anything I’m ever going to want.”

  Bobby’s complexion took on shades of purple.

  If she’d had any idea how satisfying it would be to tell Bobby to fuck off, she would have done it l
ong before now. The look on his face was priceless. She wished she had phone so she could snap a picture to show Garrick.

  She didn’t see Bobby’s hand come up until it grasped the front of her pullover, fisting in the soft fleece and the sports bra beneath.

  She yelped when he yanked her close, his face almost touching hers. “I got something you want. I got it right here.”

  Bobby had her feet almost off the floor. The strength of his grip tightened her sports bra until it cut into her skin. She sucked air into her lungs to scream and dug her fingernails into Bobby’s hand, desperately battling him and her fear.

  What little air she’d managed to gather left her in a whoosh when he shoved her away and she crashed into her supplies, barely keeping herself and the cart upright. Bobby reached down and her eyes followed, widening with horror.

  “This is for you, sweetheart.” He shoved his shorts to his thighs and fisted his limp dick, stroking it slowly. She shuddered with revulsion, unable to look away from his hairy groin or his ham-sized hand choking his cock into a response.

  Something in her snapped.

  “That’s for me?” Cocking her head, she pretending to stare her fill. She’d have to find a way to bleach her eyeballs later. “Well, then it turns out I do have something for you.” With the confidence of long practice, she grabbed a roll of tape from the cart behind her.

  Then she tore a long strip free and lobbed the heavy roll at Bobby’s face.

  He caught it automatically, the reflex to protect his face leaving him vulnerable to attack elsewhere. Lunging, she slammed the strip of duct tape across his semi-erect cock and pinned it to one of his big, hairy thighs, shoving the adhesive against the thick thatch of groin hair.

  Bobby bellowed, dropping the roll of tape and grabbing at his junk. His fingers pressed the tape around his shaft, catching in the adhesive and yanking the sensitive hairs.

  “I’m going to fucking kill you, bitch! Do you hear me!? FUCKING KILL YOU!” His cry echoed off the cinderblock walls.

  Footsteps rushed toward them. Mike shouted her name as he barreled into her office. Someone else called for Mark down the corridor.