Page 11 of Play Dirty

All eyes shifted his way, including mine. The sudden notoriety didn’t phase him one bit, however.

“You’re the most controlled player on the ice,” I said, stating fact. “You see everything, and you adjust faster than anyone else out there.”

Grayson refused to look away from me. But he also refused to react at all.

“You also try to do everything yourself,” I continued. “This slows down the entire system. Very often, at the most critical time where it matters most.”

That one actually landed. For just a tiny fraction of a moment, I saw him flinch.

I lowered my tablet and stepped back to stand beside Mercer, as silence settled over us once more. But it was a newer silence. A heavier, more weighted one.

And for once, a silence that finally wasn’t dismissive.

There wasn’t any more laughter. No more jokes. Just a bunch of sweaty guys standing around, looking at each other. Trying to process what I’d just said.

Beside me, Mercer let out a low grunt.

“Told you.”

~ 6 ~

HAVEN

The lights were still on by the time I got back to the house, but the noise had settled into something lower and less chaotic. It wasn’t quiet, by any means. Just… contained.

Mercer had kept me longer than I expected. We went over films, notes, patterns — all manner of data we could analyze to form our plan of attack. The man was in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, but he had the energy and enthusiasm — at least, when it came to hockey — of someone half his age.

Or maybe he was just excited at everything he’d seen tonight.

By now though, I was mentally and physically drained. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, bracing myself for the now-familiar wave of heat and stale air. It swung a punch at me just as before, only this time I managed to duck out of the way by partially holding my breath.

Deeper in the house, a few voices floated in. They were faint in pitch, against low, overlapping laughter. A television, maybe. Or something else.

I shut the door and slipped off my coat. As I did, something moved.

It was low. Low and behind me.

I whirled, just in time to see a round black disk glide slowly across the floor, heading straight for my feet.

I stepped back instinctively, but the disk adjusted. It kept on coming.

“Don’t take it personally,” a voice called from the living room. “He doesn’t like new people.”

I looked up. Asher was sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown casually over the back. He was holding a beer in his hand, and was watching me like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all night. Caleb sat nearby, half tuned into the television but also mildly interested in me.

Just then, the thing on the floor bumped right into my boot.

I paused, looking down. The thing rotated in a slow, deliberate circle, as if reconsidering its life choices.

That’s when I noticed the piece of cardboard taped to the top. It was crude, but someone had drawn a wooden shield on it, in black marker. On the other side of the machine, someone had taped something that looked like a cardboard sword.

“What is that?” I asked.

“That’s Sir-Cleans-a-Lot,” said Caleb.

He said it so casually. Like it explained everything.

I stared down at it some more, watching as it bumped into a table leg. The little robot turned again, then continued its slow, determined path across the floor. I had to admit, the thing had personality. It moved like it had somewhere to be.