They snuck back out to the dressing room, Holly letting Luke precede her so he could make sure the coast was clear. She wasn’t four steps out of the bathroom before several members of the team strutted into the dressing room, bedecked in expensive suits and pregame gravitas. Luke sent her a “See? You really lucked out,” kind of look.
Ass.
Then the “Charge” anthem sounded to her right. Holly’s spine snapped straight as she watched Luke fish his iPhone out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
He glanced at the caller ID and that serious expression of his descended over his handsome face like a shutter. Holly decided she might prefer his pompous expression after all.
“I gotta take this,” he said. She watched with interest as he turned away from her, shielding the call with his broad shoulders. “Why are you calling again? Seriously? Hold on.” Was it her imagination, or did Luke glance in her direction. “Let me get somewhere I can talk.”
The “Charge” fanfare? Why are you calling again? Pieces were falling into place and she didn’t particularly like the picture they were forming.
Had it been Luke in the bathroom earlier? She’d just assumed that whoever had inadvertently held the two of them hostage had come back for his list. But now that she thought about it, Luke had definitely had enough time to pick up the wayward paper before he’d gone all foot fetishist on her and blown her hiding place. That could be the reason he’d even noticed her shoes under the stall in the first place—he was bending over to pick up the list.
Holly strained to hear more of his conversation, but he pointedly disappeared back into the bathroom. To her dismay, there were too many team members in the swanky locker room now for her to follow. Still, the reporter buzz—that’s what her mother used to call it—was zinging around her gut. She was on to something. Obviously Luke’s regular deep baritone had sounded nothing like the whispered panic she’d heard earlier, but that ringtone was an indisputable clue, and one that she had to follow up on.
* * *
LUKE WALKED OVER to stand by the sinks, hating that his gaze went immediately to the stall he and Holly had hidden out in only moments ago.
But he couldn’t afford to be distracted by sex right now. Harding Lowe was the kind of law firm that charged in the triple digits for phone calls like these, and with money as tight as it was, Luke had to pay close attention and cut to the chase. “What’s so important?”
“I was going to wait until tomorrow to tell you this, but I’m worried it might hit the papers and I didn’t want you to find out like that,” Craig Harding informed him.
Luke’s blood turned to ice. It was never good when someone started a phone call that way, but when it was your lawyer? Infinitely worse.
“What?” The word was flat, more demand than question.
“Brad Timmons is filing for bankruptcy.”
Luke’s face went numb. The asshole who’d put Ethan in a wheelchair, put his parents in debt, strained his family to the emotional breaking point time after time over the last three years, was going to screw them over again.
“Fuck.”
The word echoed hollowly in the vast expanse of shiny white tile and empty navy stalls.
Luke wanted to punch something, but it wasn’t worth the fine the Storm would levy against him if he did.
Jesus Christ, how had things come to this? He made almost two million dollars a year with his new contract and still it was all he could do to keep himself and the people he loved financially afloat.
Loans, renovations, lawyers, specialists, physio—it had all added up after the accident. His paycheck was all but spent before it got deposited. He was grateful he had the means to keep his family living a comfortably middle-class life despite their exorbitant bills, but the idea that the coward who’d put his little brother in a wheelchair wasn’t going to have to contribute a dime to Ethan’s recovery made Luke nauseous.
Timmons had already lucked out with his criminal charges. He’d been convicted of assault with a weapon for the crosscheck, but ended up with an eighteen-month conditional discharge, which meant he hadn’t served any jail time and he wouldn’t have a criminal record once his probation was complete. Now he’d found a way to punk out on financial restitution, too.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Craig. I’ll take care of telling my family.”
“Understood. I’ll be in touch.”
Luke hung up the phone. He would deal with the personal stuff later. Right now, he had to focus on his team. They were only two hours away from puck drop.
He reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit, exchanging his phone for a folded-up piece of yellow legal paper. He’d found it on the floor of the bathroom and recognized instantly what it was. That 5–0 loss had been brutal. The fact that it was predetermined made it cut even deeper. Luke shook his head against the proof clutched in his hand.
He couldn’t believe any of his guys would do this. They’d battled too hard to get to where they were.
And yet...the entire premise of point-shaving and over/under betting was predicated on having an inside man, someone out there on the ice who could impact the game.
This was the last thing they needed right now. He’d only just put this team back together after losing their last captain in a blaze of scandal and lies. It had taken months of work to get all twenty-three players over the shake-up and focused on making the play-offs.
And look at them now.
The only bright spot in this rotten situation was that he’d been the one to find the betting sheet. At least this way he could deal with it internally—protect his team.
He didn’t even want to think about how this would have played out if Holly had found it instead. She could’ve ruined their chance at winning the championship before it even began.
And he wanted that championship, not just for himself but for the team.
Each and every one of those guys deserved to hoist sports’ greatest trophy above their heads, and he’d do whatever it took to make sure that happened.
For them. For himself. For his brother.
“WE’LL WIN TONIGHT. Yes. By two.”
The words still echoed in Holly’s brain, hours after the final buzzer had sounded.
The Storm had handled their opponents with relative ease tonight, up 3–0 after two periods. Then at the start of the third, Sillinger had taken a bone-headed roughing penalty, Luke had fumbled the puck and failed to clear the zone, and seconds later, LaCroix had lost his chance for a shutout.
For a while, things settled down a bit, until Colorado scored to make it 3–2 with seven minutes left in the game. Things were looking grim for the list’s prediction, and then Jacobs came out of nowhere, stripping one of his opponent’s defensemen of the puck. He deked out the goaltender and put a wrister top-shelf to make the final score 4–2.
And the Storm won by two with eight seconds left in the game.
“You’ll get your money’s worth.”
The eavesdropped whisper haunted her.
It could just be coincidence, she reminded herself. It wasn’t like 4–2 was an outlandish hockey score. And this was the first prediction on the list that had come true. She had nothing but suspicion at this point. Still, the words were on her mind as she conducted post-game interviews with the guys.
“Hi, everyone. This is Holly Evans of the Women’s Hockey Network,