"Your five minutes are up," he said.
"Then I'll come back tomorrow." She retreated towards the door, walking backward so she could keep watching his reaction. "Same time. Bring coffee."
"I don't drink coffee."
"Bring me coffee. I'll be the one asking questions. I need fuel."
She was out the door before he could respond, but she was pretty sure she heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "impossible woman."
Progress.
The interviews became a routine. Every morning at six, she'd invade his workout and pepper him with questions until he grudgingly surrendered fragments of information. She learned that the team colors of emerald and silver had been chosen by the original owner's daughter, who was seven at the time and thought green was "the prettiest." She learned that the arena had been built on the site of a former sawmill, and some of the beams in the rafters were salvaged from the original structure. She learned that Tarmek had joined the Enforcers after a brief and apparently unhappy stint with a bigger team in Seattle, though he refused to discuss the circumstances.
She learned that when he talked about hockey, when he forgot to be guarded, his whole face transformed. The stern lines softened. His eyes lit up with something that wasn't quite joy but was close enough to count. He gestured with his hands, marking plays in the air, and his voice took on a rhythm that was almost musical.
He was passionate. Deeply, intensely passionate. He just kept it buried under about seventeen layers of stoic professionalism.
Challenge accepted.
CHAPTER FIVE
The condiment bottles were Edie’s first real experiment in breaking through Tarmek’s control. The team break room had a small kitchenette, and the condiment shelf was organized with the kind of rigid precision that could only be Tarmek's work. Ketchup, mustard, mayo, relish, hot sauce—arranged by height and grouped by frequency of use, labels facing forward in perfect alignment.
She waited until she was sure he'd left for the day, then spent a pleasant fifteen minutes rearranging everything. Ketchup went to the back. Relish moved to the front. She turned the hot sauce backwards and tilted the mustard at a jaunty angle. Then she added a bottle of sriracha that she'd brought from her camper, wedged between the mayo and a jar of pickles that absolutely had not been there before.
The next morning, she positioned herself at a table with a clear sightline to the kitchenette and pretended to sketch while she waited.
He arrived at his usual time, seven-fifteen exactly, moving automatically to the coffee maker. Then he opened the condiment shelf.
He froze.
His back was to her, but she could see the exact moment his shoulders tensed. He stood there for a long, silent moment, staring at the chaos before him. Then, very slowly, very deliberately, he turned to look at her.
She smiled and waved, then went back to her sketch. When she glanced up again, he was reorganizing the bottles. His movements were precise and unhurried, but there was a rigidity to them that hadn't been there before. Like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will.
Delightful.
The phone wallpaper required more planning.
She'd noticed that he left his phone on the bench during practice, screen-down, presumably to avoid distractions. The team had a rule about phones in the locker room, something about privacy and leaked photos, but the bench area was technically public space.
"Hey Fen," she said casually one afternoon, "what's Tarmek's phone passcode?"
"1-2-3-4," Fen answered without hesitation. "He hasn't changed it since he got the phone. We've all tried to tell him it's a security risk, but he says anyone stupid enough to mess with his stuff deserves what they get."
"What does that mean?"
"No idea. Probably something terrifying." Fen grinned. "Why? What are you planning?"
"Nothing."
"Liar. Can I watch?"
"Absolutely not."
She waited until halfway through practice, when he was fully absorbed in running drills, to slip into the bench area. His phone was exactly where she expected it to be. She typed in the code, navigated to his wallpaper settings, and paused.
The current wallpaper was a photo of the Enforcers logo. Safe. Boring. Predictable.
