“Two-point-five percent fee for credit card transactions.” The guard snaps her gum.
There’s a loud buzzing noise, then a metal gate opens, and two heavyset police officers are dragging out a barefoot, shirtless man covered in tattoos—yes, on his face, too—and missing a few teeth. “And I’ll take a piss on your mother’s grave as soon as I get out of these handcuffs!” he hollers.
The cop unlocks the cuffs. Ellie’s eye is twitching.
“Uh, the ankle bracelet…” Ellie points to the chunky bracelet. “We won’t be able to get his hockey boots on, let alone any of the goalie pads.”
“Where are my flip-flops?” Ren demands. “I have a constitutional right to have my things returned to me.”
“Not me.” The officer shakes his head. “You gotta talk to his parole officer.”
“Great. Well, we’ll talk to the equipment manager.” Ellie sighs.
“Your grandmother, who I’m pretty sure I saw doing shots with Murphy’s Law—that equipment manager?”
“It’s a team effort,” Ellie tells me through a gritted smile. “We’re all trying to make sure that we win.”
“Well, goddamn,” the goalie drawls in a thick Southern accent and looks Ellie up and down. “The rumors are true. I heard the guard gossipin’, but I ain’t believe a word I heard.”
“Watch your mouth,” I snarl at him.
“The boyfriend?” He raises one eyebrow, causing the tattoos crawling all over his forehead to wrinkle.
“Alternate captain.”
“Damn Yankee.” He spits on the ground. “And a shitty hockey player too.”
Fuck this guy.
“Guess this weather is a little different from Mississippi,” Ellie says as Ren makes a big show of getting the door for her and letting it slam in my face.
“Aw, shucks, ma’am, my birth daddy’s actually a damn Yankee. Piece of shit from upstate NYC.” Ren walks barefoot through the snow next to Ellie. “He played for Boston back in the day. That’s the only reason I took this goalie job. Free plane ticket up to New England, all so’s I can take a shit on his front lawn. Got arrested for public indecency, public intoxication—oh, and I stole a police car.”
Ellie giggles. Why the hell do women find men like him charming?
“Back seat, Yankee Doodle,” he barks at me when I reach for the door.
“Fuck you.” I shove him away from the front passenger door.
He shoves me back. Harder. “I’m important. You’re just some shithead call-up from the minors.”
“Fletcher, get in the back seat, please.” Ellie gives me a stern look.
I hate that goalie.
Ellie beams at Ren as I crawl in the back of the SUV. “We brought you a snack!”
“Thanks, darlin’.”
“The hell—don’t talk to our coach like that.”
The goalie turns in his seat, peers at me, then, quick as a snake, his arm darts out and snipes the sunglasses off my face. Strangling a curse, I scuttle back on the seat.
“Ooh!” Ellie squeals and giggles. “You’re fast.”
“You’re fast,” I mock.
“It’s all the tattoos,” Ren says in that molasses accent, slipping my shades on his face.
