“Thoughts. Deep, mysterious thoughts,” I mutter, adjusting my grip.
“Thoughts, huh? Maybe one day I’ll get to hear them instead of yelling at your back.”
“Maybe,” I say, smirking. “But don’t count on it.”
She lifts a corner of her upper lip in a near-snarl. “You suck, dude. Why do I bother to hang out with you?”
“Because you have no friends.”
She sighs. “I do have friends,” she says. “I’d introduce you, but last time you told me to keep them away because they keptpawingyou.”
“Well, they did,” I say, shrugging, moving to the cable machine, which I adjust and then attach to my ankle.
“You’re a professional hockey player, and professional hockey players have reputations. I’m sure they thought you’d be into puck bunnies.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m into consent, and I did not consent to be touched. Still, my feelings about your friends don’t mean you can’t go hang out with them instead of sitting in here pretending to work out.”
“Christ, you’re cranky tonight. Are you hangry? Should I order something for delivery?”
“Maybe,” I concede. “I had conditioning this morning, then had to go handle a boundary dispute in one of the suburbs. By the time I got back, it was time for practice. I didn’t get to eat.”
She nods. “Why did you have to go?”
“We fucked up,” I say. “Did business in Campisi territory. It did not go well for our employee.”
She makes a face. “Idiot.”
“Mmm,” is my noise of agreement.
“How’s your other job?”
“You know how things go with this team.”
“Do you know who actually owns the Reapers?” Misha asks, scrolling through her phone but not really paying attention.
“I have a pretty good idea,” I say, tightening my gloves. “Silent owner. Evidence points to Don Antonio Campisi.”
Misha whistles softly. “That guy’s untouchable. He’s got his fingers in everything in this city—real estate, politics, small businesses. Grocery stores, restaurants, pharmacies… name it, he’s there.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “And that’s just the legal side. Midwest’s weapons, drugs, jewels, people… he runs it all.”
She frowns. “And the clubs?”
I shake my head. “Not like mine. Thoughtless, dirty. Women addicted, trapped, working off debts they never agreed to. Places like that make me sick. I’d be embarrassed if I owned them.”
Misha smirks. “Which is why you did it better.”
I glance at her. “I do what I can.”
“How many games have you guys thrown this season so far?” Misha asks.
“Six or seven, perhaps?” I answer. “In the grand scheme of a season, it’s not that many to lose, but it’s fucking demoralizing. I’m a team captain, and I have to sit and watch our coach make purposely shitty coaching decisions that are obviously designed to make us lose.”
“The Reapers are like the WWE of hockey,” Misha jokes. “A bunch of effort and bluster, but it’s all fake.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “It’s a real effort. Most games are normal. And we’re a bunch of brawlers, so we fight hard for the wins we get.”
“Don’t be defensive, brother,” she says. “I’m just messing with you. Oh, how’s the cute Irish guy?”
