Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Zoe, all you wrote is ‘thanks.’”
“Can’t be too careful.” I shrug.
I hear the whooshing sound as she sends the message, and then she eagerly pokes the video link. “We’re going to catch this… what did the boss call him?”
“A gutless weasel.”
“Right.” She turns the phone around toward me.
But I hold up a hand to block the view. “You look. I don’t want to watch myself fall down again. It’s so humiliating.”
Darcy winces. “Your bully got exactly what he wanted—but only until we bust his ass. Okay—zooming in on the players’ faces. DeLuca looks appalled. O’Connell flinches like someone just punched him in the balls. Awww! Look at the rookie’s face.” She turns the phone around.
I see Weber, and he’s grabbing his chin, his mouth in a perfect O of shock and horror. “He’s a nice kid. It can’t be him.”
“Agreed. Okay, back row. We’ve got Dahlberg looking bored, but that’s standard. Dude has like zero expression. What about Jackson, though? Here.”
She hands me the phone again, and I squint at the D-man from Minnesota. “He just looks constipated. I don’t know if we’re going to find our smoking gun here.”
“Yeah, but… did you notice Chase’s face?”
My stomach wobbles like a skater on a shaky edge. “Why? It’s not him. God.”
“I agree,” she says cheerfully. “I want you to watch for a different reason.”
“Because he’s dreamy?” I sigh. “I already know.”
“This takes dreamy to a whole new level,” she insists. “Right after you fall, he looks horrified.” I hear the sound of a screenshot. “And then he gets murder eyes!” Another screen grab. “Oh, I like this one. His fists are clenched. Like he’s going to choke whoever did this to you. And—wait—oh my God. I think I know why Moreau apologized to you for laughing. Look.”
She turns my phone around again and shows me another still frame—of Chase grabbing Moreau by the jersey and getting up in his face.
“Oh shit,” I breathe.
“Maybe Moreau is your bully,” she says triumphantly. “And he only apologized because Chase ordered him to, and because it makes him look innocent.”
I take a fortifying gulp of beer. “It’s not him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s the worst skater on the team,” I point out. “By far. And I’m thinking he has an ongoing chip on his shoulder about it. And Moreau has been traded to, like, three different teams who all probably tried to fix his skating.”
“So yeah,” Darcy says. “He’s our guy!”
I shake my head. “He avoids me, but I don’t think it’s personal.”
“You are too quick to assume the best of people,” Darcy says, pointing her beer glass at me. “You do it all the time. But somebody did this. Rivets don’t just fall out. I heard Bernie talking to the boss man. He said he was a hundred percent sure there was tampering.”
“Wait.” I put my head in my hands, mostly because I’ve had too much beer. “We should be looking to see who wasn’t there. A few players ditched.”
“Which ones?” She picks up my phone again and squints at the screen. “We need more footage. I can’t see everyone’s face in this clip.”
“Not sure,” I mumble. “We make a complete list from, like, the last three game rosters, and then watch the earlier part of the video to pick out faces.”
“I know an even simpler way to figure this out.” She taps my phone, and I hear her initiating a call.
“Who are you calling?”
Darcy ignores the question. “Hi, Chase!” she says a moment later. “This is actually Darcy with Zoe’s phone. But, wow. You picked that up fast.”
I sigh. “Darcy…”
“She’s fine! Well, mostly. We were just down at Highlights reviewing what happened today and trying to figure out who’s responsible…”
I hear Chase respond to her, but there’s a lot of noise in the bar, and I can’t get the words.
“Yeah, I know! So infuriating. We’ve got the video here, and we’re trying to figure out who looks guilty and who didn’t show up at all. There aren’t that many people Zoe can trust. So I thought you might pop down here and help us.”
“What?” I pick my head up. “Don’t ask him to come here! He’s probably entertaining supermodels at the Mojo Dojo Hockey House.”
Darcy frowns. “Unless you’re busy with any supermodels? No? Okay, awesome. We need your help, and Zoe is a little drunk.” She hangs up and slides the phone back across the table to me, looking smug.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. I’m just fulfilling my role as your best work friend.”
“You know what’s sad? You’re my best friend in the world.” I burp.
Darcy laughs at me. “You have a lot of shitty friends, apparently.”
“I’ve never had enough friends,” I clarify. “I had competitors. And a husband who… Ugh.” It’s too depressing to think about.
“Oh, honey. Well, listen to this…” Darcy tells me the story of her most recent online dating disaster as a way of cheering me up. But then someone slides into the booth beside me, and I inhale the scent of spice and leather, with top notes of rink ice.