Page 33

THIRTY-TWO

Damon

The team is in Seattle, but I’m not with them.

I flew ahead to Vancouver, meeting with another agent—though, thankfully, in person this time instead of on the fucking phone—and then watching some scores come in.

It was one of those weird days where I had both a lot of shit to do and yet a lot of downtime.

The meeting was short.

The scores rolled in without compunction.

The emails and questions I needed to answer were easy to handle.

But as the downtime grew, so did my edginess.

I hate days like this. The moment I let my guard down, shit will hit the fan and then I’ll be spending hours putting out fires…all while talking on the fucking phone.

Now, though, I’m chilling in my hotel room, wishing that I wasn’t here, but in Seattle, invading Joey’s.

Of course, she wouldn’t actually be there.

Puck drop is in less than an hour, but instead of watching the game from a box, I’ll be well…watching it on a box—the flat screen in my room.

“Lame,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes and leaning back on the bed.

Which is the exact moment my phone rings.

“Fucking hell.” I snag it from the bed, see that it’s the legal department calling, and groan.

I don’t want to deal with this shit.

And it’s definitely going to be shit.

“Dammit.” I consider hurling my phone across the room—at least if it’s broken I’ll get a reprieve from some of the calls—but it’s my job, so I resist and begrudgingly swipe my finger across the screen. As it connects, I lift it to my ear and listen for approximately three-point-three seconds before I’m ready to chuck it right out the fucking window, permanently sealed for safety or not.

“Damon, it’s Tera.”

My newly appointed head of legal sounds like she’s about to ask me for a favor I know I’m not going to like.

God dammit.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I know. What do you need?”

She sighs—and yup, this is going to be bad.

“What?” I press.

“Hiller.”

A bucket of cold water washes over me. “What the fuck about that fucking asshole?”

“The prosecution wants to drop the case.”

That bucket of water turns into a goddamned waterfall. “What the fuck?” I snap. “We have sworn affidavits from a half-dozen guys, along with Ivy, Claire, and Ava. And me. Plus, I sat down and filmed a fucking deposition detailing exactly what I saw, and you’re telling me that’s not enough?”

“I’m telling you that the prosecution wants to drop the case.”

I grind my teeth together, the nightmare days of what happened to Kylie, the guy getting off, all that happened afterward welling up and choking me.

“We have all of that,” I manage to grit out. “And it’s not fucking enough?”

Tera sighs. “I’ve offered all assistance necessary to the prosecutor, interns to research and help with filings, funding, fucking coffee and lunch deliveries, but he’s not convinced he can win this. At best, he wants to float a fucking plea bargain with no teeth. At worst…”

“He wants to let it all go,” I supply.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. God, this is exactly the same shit that happened to Kylie.

“I know.”

“So what’s our next move?”

She sighs. “I’ll keep pushing the prosecutor, but we need something else, Damon.”

My stomach starts churning.

Because I know something else that would help?—

And I will never—fucking never —offer it up.

“What kind of something else?” I rasp.

“More people who can come forward with evidence of misconduct—sexual or otherwise. They can be anonymous reports or something that’s workplace related. How was he with the coaching staff that remained? Have Joey or Tommy or Dave reported anything?”

Yes.

But fucking no.

“Damon?”

I blink, realize I didn’t reply and manage to grit out, “No.” A silent breath as my mind spins, remembering the hell that Kylie went through, a hell that was completely for naught. “No,” I repeat. “I haven’t heard anything from them, but I’ll check in.” Another breath, one that helps me begin thinking clearly. “Let’s also go back through his employment record. If he did this with the Sierra, then there are likely victims from his other teams before who can add to the prosecutor’s case.”

“Likely the statute of limitations has passed on most of those,” Tera says.

“It’s ten years in California.” I clench the phone hard enough for it to creak in protest. “He was only with the Sierra for five. That still leaves time for us to find something.”

“That’s a good idea,” Tera murmurs. “I’ll get the team on it.”

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything from the coaching staff.”

Anything except for?—

I slam the door shut in my mind, say goodbye, and we hang up.

I sit in silence for a long time, trying to breathe, to calm, to bury that anger inside me again.

It doesn’t work.

Eventually, though, I manage to calmly set my phone aside and grab the remote.

Then I turn on the TV and I watch as Joey and the rest of the Sierra win the game.

“Perfect,” I mutter. “Fucking perfect.”

* * *

The bed bounces slightly and I open my eyes.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Joey murmurs, pulling the covers back.

God, she’s beautiful, and dressed in nothing but one of my tees.

It must be late—really late—considering she and the team had to fly up to Vancouver after their game.

“Hey, Red.” I lift a hand, wrap my fingers around her wrist. “Come here.”

She comes, crawling into bed next to me, curling up against my side. Sighing, I nuzzle at her hair, loving the scent of her, the feel of her in my arms. “How’d you get in, baby?”

“Shh,” she says. “It’s the middle of the night. We can talk about my breaking and entering skills later.”

My lips curve, but then they flatten out again.

Because I remember that fucking phone call.

Remember that the case against Hiller is fucked and that she might have to deal with the bastard going free?—

“Damon?” She rolls over, hand settling on my chest. “What’s wrong?”

I realize I’ve gone stiff.

It takes nearly everything in me to relax my body. I smooth back her hair, press a kiss to her forehead. “Nothing, baby.”

“Sweetheart—”

A pulse through my middle, worry gnawing at my bones.

“It’s nothing,” I lie. “I just remembered the meetings I have tomorrow.”

She’s still for a long moment, as though gauging that answer for truth.

I brace.

Because it’s a fucking lie.

But she doesn’t call me on it.

Just presses her lips to my throat and murmurs, “Okay, honey. Then let’s get you some rest so you can make it through those meanings.”

“Thanks, Red.”

She smiles, lips hitting mine for a brief, sweet kiss.

Then I tuck the blankets around us, draw her closer, and settle in to go to sleep.

She’s out in minutes.

But it takes me much, much longer.