Page 25 of Home of the Brave

“She was also a doctoral candidate. It's not Addi’s fault she didn’t know all of her secret hobbies.”

I shook my head. “She knew. She also knew of my fear of dolls. So that was targeted.”

One step into that woman’s apartment, wall to wall shelving of her collection of dummies, vintage and modern alike, and I ran from the building.

Some say there were tears. Others say there was screaming.

I denied both.

Again, I will not think back to then!

“It really wasn’t.” Her smirk gave her away.

“I’m just grateful we have Henson on our side.”

My name caught my attention, and I looked down the table to where Mario Sanchez from Seattle was tilting his glass in my direction. “Everything you did during the Olympics aside, I’m pretty sure you were the reason Utah made it so far post-season.”

“Hey,” Schultz called with mock outrage. “It was a team effort.”

Dexter scoffed as he shuffled past. “He did everything he could to keep you guys alive. If he could have scored too, he would have.”

I was speechless. It was one thing to hear your own teammates talk you up, but a fellow goalie, especially a competitor, was rare.

Hartman dipped his head, “You’re right.”

“Did you see that block?” Sanderson pointed across the table to his fellow right-wing, Colt. “I thought your shot was going in. There was no way for Henson to even see it, but he threw up his elbow like his spidey senses tingled.”

I chuckled with the rest of the table.

“Playing with you, instead of against you, is quite the treat,” Powell said.

“It’s an honor,” I replied. “And just as much of a relief to not have to block you guys either.”

Abrams caught my eye and gave me a small nod, as if saying, “See, nothing to worry about.”

It was an unexpected reassurance. I’d been in my head, and without knowing, they said exactly what I needed to hear, maybe not in so many words, but they trusted me.

7

VICTORIA

Ishould have known.

Looking back, I should have somehow seen this coming.

Realistically, there was no way for me to predict this terrible turn of events. There were no warning signs. No hints or whispers.

But still, something in the back of my mind blamed myself for not knowing.

It started with an email.

Chris was not known for being an early riser, but there it was. A message from him in my inbox at four a.m. Pacific time.

Instructions to meet Joe in the lobby of my hotel at eight a.m. Nothing else.

I’d heard of Joe in passing. He generally covered football. I figured he was in town for the festivities and was dropping something off for me.

It wasn’t all that unusual to have the network treat us journalists like their personal delivery team since red-eye flights generally got to the other side of the country faster than even overnighting a package.