“Hendricks and Cole said you’re a liability in high-pressure situations.”
“I know.”
“They said it twice.”
“Goes in the folder.”
She looks up. “You added a Cup Final folder.”
“Separate folder. Bigger font.”
The corner of her mouth. “That’s unhinged.”
“It’s working.”
She looks at me for a second. That look — the one where she’s decided something and hasn’t said it yet. She’s been carrying it.I’ve been watching it. I haven’t pushed.
She’ll say it when she’s ready.
And today isn’t the day to make her — today is Cup Final Game 1, and my head needs to be exactly one place.
“You’re going to destroy them,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“The folder speech was surprisingly motivational.”
“Keep it.”
She almost smiles. Goes back to her phone. I go get my gear.
By the time I pull into the arena lot, the spread is still sitting in my head.
Seven to one.
Fine.
Then I see him before I’m even out of the car.
Griffin Novak.
Standing near the players’ entrance like he belongs there. Long drive for a man with a game tonight.
I get out.
He sees me coming and doesn’t move.
“Mercer.”
“Novak.” I stop in front of him. “What the fuck are you doing at the players’ entrance?”
His mouth moves. Not a smile. Something uglier.
“Dropping something off.”
“For Kat?”
He lifts one shoulder. “She forgot it at Christmas.”
