Page 80 of Home of the Brave

“Sorry, I left the batteries on the charger and didn’t realize until I was already in the elevator. I had to go back up, but I’m waiting for it to come back. I’ll be down in just a second.”

“Okay, meet me by the doors,” I explained as I slid out of my chair, trying to remain calm.

“You don’t want breakfast?”

“We can grab something later.” I checked over my shoulder, making sure none of my fellow journalists were around or suspicious of my departure two hours before we were supposed to be at the arena.

“I haven’t had coffee.”

“You can have the rest of mine,” I walked at what I hoped was a normal speed through the lobby. My heart was racing, and I wanted to run.

“What’s going on?”

I heard her voice through the phone, but also echoing toward me. When she saw me, I waved her over, not speaking until we were outside and away from the building.

I handed her my still-full cup and made sure we weren’t being followed.

“I got a text,” I explained as we crossed the street. “It said to be at the arena with a camera if I wanted breaking news. It said I had ten minutes, but that was––” I checked my phone, “six minutes ago.”

“Oh,” she took off at a jog, and I matched her pace. “Why didn’t you say that sooner?”

“Because I didn’t know who might be listening.”

She laughed, taking a careful sip without breaking her stride.

“What? This could be something big.”

The arena was only one block away, but we had two minutes left.

“It’s hockey, not a government secret.”

I ignored her, heading to the unmarked door we used to come and go, grateful it was already unlocked and the security guard recognized us.

“Where to now, Bond?”

I narrowed my eyes at her before checking my phone. No new messages.

“I don’t know.”

“It just said the arena?”

I nodded.

“Well, this hall looks clear. Let’s head toward the rink and work from there.”

That was a decent plan, so we hurried, taking turns, and surprisingly did not bump into anyone else.

I stopped at the boards and looked around. The ice was smooth, but empty.

“Maybe the locker rooms?”

Cambrie was too busy digging in her bag to respond. She pulled out her camera and pointed it up at the rafters. “Nope.”

I turned and looked up. “Oh, no.”

She shushed my laughter, and I had to walk away so I wouldn’t ruin her video. There were dozens, about fifty if my guess was right, uniforms hanging like championship flags.

The men’s East and West uniforms, specifically. Jerseys, shorts, and helmets, floating over us like ghosts.