Page 1 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Wren

This isn’t the first time I’ve been stopped by airport security, but it is the most annoying.

Maybe because this time, I’m not actually doing anything wrong.

The room I’m in is small and gray with a storage shelf against the wall that looks like it’s full of items taken during security and customs—a little water gun stacked next to uncured meat. I stare at it, a laugh bubbling in my throat when I wonder if the items came from the same guy.

Across the metal table, two airport security guards are frowning at me.

One sits, and the other stands against the wall.

Even though I’m the most relaxed perp ever—leaning back in my chair, answering all their questions, not a single nervous glance in the forty-five minutes I’ve been here—they still won’t let me go.

Granted, I would have been relaxed even if I was doing something wrong. But aren’t the police always saying they can tell? They can smell guilt a mile away? So, right now they should be aware that I haven’t violated a single detail of my special parole situation.

“Were you or were you not in Japan in 2015?”

The security guard asking the questions can’t be more than twenty years old, his skinny little arms shaking in the uniform that’s too big for him.

I count at least twelve pimples on his face, what I think might be fungal acne.

If he was nicer, maybe I’d tell him about the miracle cure—Head & Shoulders—that helped me get rid of mine.

Instead of giving him skin care tips, I groan and let my head drop back. “I’ve already answered these questions. Look—the Japan thing was dropped. And Ecuador? I’m not permitted to talk to you about that unless you have the proper clearance.”

Skinny balks, and his mustached, beer-bellied boss—who, up until now, has been leaning against the wall—scowls, pushing away from it and walking toward me, a toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

I get the impression that he’s trying to play bad cop to the kid’s good cop.

The only problem is that neither of them are real police officers, and I’m pretty sure Mustache is putting on a fake Boston accent, which is only making me crack up.

If either of them came face-to-face with the FBI agents that handled my case, they’d piss themselves.

“Listen up,” Mustache says, clearly trying to be intimidating. “You’re going to answer these questions, and you’re gonna tell us the truth.”

I tilt my head, biting my tongue to keep from smiling at him. I get the feeling he would not like that. “I am telling you the truth. Is there any way we could possibly hurry this up? I’m going to be late for a very important meeting.”

My first real job after working for the government. I can practically taste the freedom—and the fat paycheck. I need that money, and after everything I went through to land the position, the last thing I want is for Skinny and Mustache here to ruin everything for me.

“You’re going to be late for a lot more than that, lady,” Mustache says, leaning forward, his cheeks getting ruddy with anger.

That puts a bad taste in my mouth—lady? Who the hell is he talking about?

“What am I, forty?”

“You tell me,” he grouses, looking down at the papers spread out on the table. “According to this, you’ve been a lot of ages, a lot of different people. How do we even know Wren Beaumont is your real name?”

“Because it’s on my passport. Look, you can call the district judge in Maryland, he’ll help me explain all this—”

“You used your one phone call,” he snaps, his frown bending his mustache into a horseshoe shape. “And I sure as hell am not making one on your behalf.”

I glance at the takeout container in the trash—my one phone call to get an Italian beef sandwich with extra pickles. Who can blame me? You can’t work your way out of a situation on an empty stomach.

Besides, airport food is stupid expensive, and my life has been pretty expensive lately. After the price of this ticket, the deposit for Gran’s first six months at the home, and the nice new dress I’m wearing, it’s not like I was flush with cash to spend on dinner.

Shrugging, I turn back to Mustache. “It was worth it.”

His mustache quivers with anger, and he clears his throat, straightening the papers in front of him for the fifth time.

I knew I shouldn’t have flown—it would’ve been much easier to make the drive to Milwaukee.

A lot less likely for my name to show up on a screen, travel flags lighting up like a Christmas tree for a bunch of bored assholes.

“You should really be taking this more seriously,” he says, crossing his arms. “We could deport you for this.”

“Back to Maryland?” I shudder involuntarily, then laugh. “Okay—on second thought, please, don’t make me go back there.” Not that Milwaukee is much better. “What do you want to know?”

He actually claps his hands together, sliding them like a movie villain, and I start to prepare a juicy string of lies for him. It doesn’t matter what I say here—they’re not even recording. Besides, after my five-star service, I’ll have the weight of the Bureau behind me.

But it will be fun to spin up some stories for him, get his middle-aged heart racing. It’ll be even more fun because he’s wasting my time.

Before I can start to tell him all about a heist to steal the Milwaukee River, there’s a knock on the door.

A different, third security person—a woman, with a slick blonde ponytail—sticks her head in, looking uneasy as her gaze skips to Mustache.

“There’s someone here for her,” she says.

“Prisoners don’t get visitors,” he says, shaking his head with glee. “You’ll just have to tell them to wait.”

“It’s, uh—well, he says that he’s waiting on her, and that you know him?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, do I?”

“Coach…Victor Lawson. Of the Milwaukee Frost.”

Mustache is on his feet so fast he nearly knocks over the chair in front of him. “…The Coach Vic? What the hell are you talking about, Darlene? What the hell is he doing here?”

I watch all this with moderate interest. I know that the Milwaukee Frost fan base was growing—I did research on the franchise the moment I was hired for the position—but I didn’t think it was like this.

Only four years after the team’s inception, and this security guard is reacting to Coach Vic’s name like he’s Bill Belichick.

I’ve never really enjoyed watching sports, but sports gambling was a huge part of what dad and I got up to.

So I know the basics of what makes a team good. What could predict a win.

In fact, I got so good at predicting wins that it led to our eventual arrest. First in my dad’s entire history as a professional conman.

“He wants her,” Darlene says, coughing a bit from nervousness. “He said we’re holding her up and that he might call…the FBI?”

Mustache’s eyes go large, and he grabs his belt, adjusting it, glancing at me as he harrumphs out of the room, presumably to go talk to Coach Vic. I whistle while I wait, and Skinny eyes me like I might secretly be building a bomb.

“Alright,” Mustache says, returning a moment later and looking chagrined as he waves me out of the room. “Come on, you’re free to go.”

“Thank you,” I say, giving him a little curtsy as I pass. Just to piss him off.

In the hallway, the Milwaukee Frost’s head coach is waiting for me, my pink, stickered suitcase looking odd at his side. Thank god he managed to find it—everything in there might be from the Target bargain bin, but I can’t afford to replace it.

“Wren Beaumont,” he says, not smiling as he watches me approach. He’s on the taller side, which makes sense since he was once a very famous and successful hockey player. Now, he’s older and rounder, but maintains the same stern expression I recognize from his photos.

“Well hi,” I say, coming to a stop and tilting my head at him. “Pleasure to see you again, Uncle Vic.”

***

The Milwaukee Frost arena training complex and administrative offices are actually pretty impressive.

Uncle Vic leads me from building to building, showing me around the newest facilities in the NHL.

Players pass occasionally, and I wave to them, watching them register me with their coach, consider me.

We zip around through the parking lots on a golf cart, hopping out so he can show me the different areas.

The locker room looks glossy, perfect—every stall exactly the same, a jersey for each player hanging front and center, skates propped up on the wall.

Vic leans down to show me the fans in each little cubby—temperature controlled and providing air flow to dry the jerseys when they’re clean.

In the center of the ceiling, hanging ten feet above our heads, is a massive, baby blue Milwaukee Frost logo that illuminates the rest of the room. It fights with the LEDs and bathes the room in gentle light.

After the locker room is the player lounge, where a wall of TVs show hockey news and recaps of last year’s season in which the Frost made it to the play-offs, but didn’t take home the Stanley Cup.

A full-time chef waves to me from behind a shining stainless-steel counter. “You want anything? I can whip something up for you, honey.”

“No time,” Uncle Vic says.

But I cut in, raising my eyebrows at the guy. “Can you make Italian beef?”

Ten minutes later, I’m back in the golf cart with my sandwich, and Uncle Vic is shaking his head. “Of all the things that guy can make, you choose a sandwich.”

“I love these,” I say, quickly catching grease from running down my chin. “Have you ever had one in Chicago? To die for.”

“I think you’ll find Milwaukee has its own to die for food,” Vic says, cutting his eyes toward me. I feel something between us softening, years of tension relaxing slightly when he says, “Maybe I’ll have to show you. We could do a food tour.”

I’m not a sentimental person, but the last time I saw Uncle Vic was during my court case. At the time, he’d said he understood I was just a kid, but there was hurt in his eyes.

Now, I swallow and look away from him, pushing down the feeling that tells me I’ve already ruined this. I’ve come to realize that the negative voice in the back of my head is usually just my dad, my brain coming up with what I think he might say.

You can’t trust Victor, he would say, shaking his head at me. The guy just wants to take you away from me, Wren.

I ignore the voice, say, “I’d like that.”

After touring the training room, meeting the physical therapists, and shivering down by one of the rinks, we finally delve into a sleek, modern set of offices that house the administration and team responsible for organizing and coordinating the Milwaukee Frost.

“Alright,” Vic says, leading me into a conference room and slapping down a binder on the table. “Tomorrow is your meeting with the HR people to set up your payroll, go over your job description, all that. But right now, we’re gonna meet with some of the other decision-makers on the team.”

“Decision-makers?”

Straightening up, he fixes me with a look. “The people I had to convince to get on board with hiring you.”

As though summoned by his words, the door opens and people start flooding in. I’m introduced first to Derek Sullivan, assistant coach.

“Call me Pops,” he says, shaking my hand. His smile makes his cheeks round and red like an old man from a Disney movie. “We’re all so happy to have you here.”

Vic shoots him a look that says that’s not entirely true, but every person to come into the conference room is nice, welcoming.

The Vice President, the Director of Guest Relations, every coach and official shakes my hand, welcomes me to the team, asks me about my background, and shows the appropriate amount of recognition for my last job with the FBI.

That is, until we’re all seated just about to start the meeting, and the door opens one more time.

I look up and make eye contact with a tall—very tall—and strong man with a straight nose and golden-brown hair in loose waves. He’s the epitome of All-American, the kind of guy you wouldn’t question for the part of Clark Kent. If he ran for office, he’d get votes based on his jawline alone.

Just looking at him, I know he’s the kind of man who’s had everything handed to him in life. I imagine he has two loving parents, a huge family barbecue every summer. He probably grew up playing fetch in the yard with a fucking Goldendoodle.

“Vic?” he asks, his eyes darting to Coach, who looks up to see his player and doesn’t seem surprised at all that he’s here.

“Luca,” Coach Vic says, nodding at him. “You got my email.”

“Yeah, came straight from training,” Luca says, stepping into the room in one long stride. He pulls out a chair and takes a seat like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Why is there such a bad taste in my mouth about this man?

When he looks at me again, those brown eyes glinting in the fluorescent light, I get the sense that the feeling is mutual.

“Are we ready to get started?” the Vice President asks, and to my shock, Luca holds up his hand, his gaze still locked on Vic to my left.

“Not quite yet,” he says. I look back and forth between them only to find the VP nodding. Who is this? What player has the power to walk into a meeting room and hold his palm up to a higher-up like that?

“Vic, actually,” he goes on, “I was hoping we could have a talk about this—”

“I know you don’t like it, McKenzie,” Vic says, not unkindly. I’m not sure he could do anything unkindly. “But it’s happening. We’ve all signed on.”

Something in Luca’s jaw ticks, and he glances back and forth between Vic and me. I sit up taller. I’m not sure exactly what’s happening right now, but it’s clear Vic is on my side.

“Fine,” Luca relents, and it seems like everyone in the room lets out a breath at that response. Then, his eyes land on mine, firm, unwavering. “But if she’s working on strategy, then I’m working on it with her.”