“I need you to get footage of section 106.”
“What?” he asks, confused.
“Now!”
He does as asked.
“Close up of Emma Shaw, LA’s owner, and the crew she’s with.” I hiss. “And the footage goes directly to Sofie Fairfax, you hear me.”
“Done,” comes from beside me, and I turn and see one of the girls, not the redhead; instead, it’s the cute little nerd.
“What’s done?” I ask.
“Sent her a video in text.” She answers
“The fuck?” I growl, and she shudders. “No, you did good. Now, do me a favor?”
“Ummmm.”
“Go tell her to stay put,” she blinks. “Please.”
“Okay, yeah. Okay.” She takes off.
I sling my eyes back to the kid with the camera. “That film is to go to no one but Sofie. No middleman, no fucking producer, and if I hear you have done otherwise, I will fucking break you.”
His eyes grow huge, and the poor fuck freezes.
I force a smile, which clearly doesn’t have the desired effect; he looks even more scared. “Kid, relax. You’re fine as long as you do as I say.”
“Yes sir.”
I push off and head to the tunnel.
In the locker room, Deacon is already stripped down, wearing sweats and throwing on a tee shirt when I tell him, “You see Dingy, because I didn’t.”
“Saw his woman.” He grumbles.
“You see who she was with?” I ask, quickly removing my skates.
He looks at me, “Didn’t need to, that fucker is here.”
“Maybe, but she was with the doc that fucks with players’ heads and fucks them until their heads clear and tell her to piss off, and Sofie’s cunt sister.” I stand up, shove my feet in slides, not even sure they’re mine. “Let’s roll.”
We take the back route, the one meant for staff and media, not the public. It seems like it takes forever for the elevator to reach us, but taking the stairs would slow us down further.
The doors open and we step in. No words are exchanged. The doors open at the box level, and we step out.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” I mutter.
Deacon follows my line of sight and swears under his breath. In the lobby of the hall that leads to the private box, Emma Shaw is leaning against the rail, polished and smug, like she belongs. Rathburn is beside her, talking with her hands like she’s explaining something important. The woman is a fucking idiot who uses big words in an attempt to appear smart. No clue how she holds two PHD’s or what sick fuck let her suck him off for a passing grade. I mean no proof, but what other explanation is there? Sofie’s sister is the only one missing from the trio.
“Don’t engage, just get to the girls,” Deacon seethes.
I follow him, and then Rathburn steps forward, “Aleksandr, how are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Still having issues with the language barrier, you poor dear,” she pouts out her injected lips.
