Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
A server appears, delivering at least half a dozen appetizers, as well as the promised pitcher of golden lager. Once she’s gone, the mood shifts as Stone pours pints for the table.
Tank leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “So,” he says, his voice low. “Fill me in. What happened that’s so fucked up it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
Stone and Cruise exchange a look that makes my stomach tighten.
Whatever this is, it’s not good.
“I overheard Garcia talking to Hartley at the pita place while I was waiting for my takeout after practice,” Stone begins, his voice barely audible over the pub noise. “They didn’t notice me, I guess. Or maybe they just don’t give a shit who knows they’re colluding behind the scenes.”
“Colluding is the perfect word,” Justin pipes up.
Stone inclines his head. “Thank you. Anyway, Garcia’s talking out his fucking ass about you, Tank. Not just bringing up the old stuff, but claiming he heard you’ve been scoring shit from some dealer who caters to the rich and famous in town.”
“What the fuck?” Tank’s voice is soft, but deadly, and a muscle instantly starts twitching in his jaw.
I reach for his thigh under the table, squeezing gently. “That’s insane,” I say. Indignant on his behalf. “Between training, teaching camps and private clients, and being with me, when would he even have time?”
“And I’m not rich and famous,” Tank agrees. “Thanks to my fuck ups, I’m one of the lowest paid members on the team.”
“And like you need to be rich and famous to buy drugs?” Justin rolls his eyes. “It’s all bullshit. But here’s the thing—I made some gossip-hunting calls this afternoon.” He leans closer. “This isn’t Garcia’s first sabotage rodeo. He pulled the same kind of crap with another goalie prospect when he was in the Penguins’ feeder system. Spread rumors the other guy was betting on the games.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, feeling the heat of anger building in my chest.
Who does this to another person’s career? Their livelihood?
“What happened to the other goalie?” Tank asks, tightly.
Cruise’s expression darkens. “By the time they were done investigating everything, they decided the evidence was inconclusive, and he was cleared. But the damage was already done. Guy never made it to the show.”
Tank exhales slowly, and I swear I can feel the tension radiating off his skin. “So, what am I supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for this fucker to destroy everything I’ve worked for?”
“No,” Stone says firmly. “We’re going to nip this in the bud. We just need a plan to expose him as a lying sack of shit before he can do any more damage.”
“What kind of plan?” I ask. “I mean, it’s his word against Tank’s at this point, right?” I sit up straighter, turning to Tank as an idea hits. “What about a drug test? You could just offer to take one, right? That would take the wind out of his sails.”
“I already took one yesterday at the start of camp,” Tank says. “It was clear, but Hartley made a point of telling me he knew oxy only stays in the blood twenty-four hours, and he wouldn’t be impressed until I cleared random screenings so…”
“Shoot,” I say, deflating again.
“That’s why we have to catch Garcia making shit up,” Cruise says, a hint of mischief entering his expression. “We’ll set him up to expose himself and be weasel-free before the season starts.”
Tank’s brow furrows. “Sounds good, but how?”
“I was thinking we could connect him with a ‘dealer,’ who has dirt on you,” Stone says, gesturing with his pint glass as he outlines the plan. “But when they meet up, the guy says that isn’t true and he doesn’t have jack shit. But…if Garcia will slip him a couple G’s, he can arrange to swing by the Badgers team office and tell the staff that he’s been selling Tank pills for months.”
“And we record the whole thing,” Justin cuts in, clearly excited by the potential sting operation. “That way we have hard evidence that Garcia doesn’t have shit on Tank. And that he’s a sack of lying, STD-infected dicks.” I wrinkle my nose and he hurries to add, “Sorry, Steph. Not to be crass, but he is.”
I nod. “It’s fine. I agree.”
“Right,” Stone says. “So, we set it up, wait for Garcia to fall into our trap, and when we reveal it was a trap to management—bada-bing-bada-boom, no more Garcia annoying the fuck out of everyone all season.”
Tank grunts, then glances my way. “What do you think?”
I take a sip of my beer, rolling the idea over in my mind. “Are we positive he’ll go for it?”
“He’s desperate to eliminate the competition for the starter position,” Justin says, reaching for a loaded nacho. “He’ll bite.”
“But—” I break off, resting my elbows on the table and leaning in as I whisper, “Isn’t this kind of risky? I mean, where would we even find a fake dealer who’s willing to help us out with something like this?”