T.J. glanced over. A burly guy in a Storm jersey was eyeinghim, and it wasn’t a friendly look. Shit. Before he could answer, theguy turned to other customers and called out, “It is T.J. Shanstrom,” then swung his eyes back to T.J. “Why the fuckaren’t you behind bars, asshole?”
This charged T.J.’s bloodstream with pissed-offness, and he told himself to calm the fuck down.Tangling with some random jerkoff, physically or verbally, wouldn’t endwell for either of them. Zeroing in on getting the hell out of the store, hequickly inserted his credit card as a wide-eyed clerk in an orange apron took astep toward the angry fan. “Sir, if you could just—”
Burly Guy shot her a warning glare. “Don’t even think abouttelling me to keep quiet, lady. This guy’s a criminal. He shouldn’t even be—”
T.J. couldn’t hold it in. “Look, dude, why don’t you givethe lady a break?” He grabbed his receipt and bags.
Burly Guy snorted. “Or what? You gonna sucker-punch me like you did May? Fucking cheapshot.”
A small crowd gathered. T.J. squared himself up and facedthe guy. This dickhead would be easy to drop. Don’t engage, don’t engage, don’t engage. He pivoted to leave.
“Ha! Big man’s nothing more than a little pussy. Look at thechickenshit run away as soon as someone gets in hisgrill. Guess you only take on defenseless guys, huh?”
Confining the flaring anger inside him, T.J. pulled in ahuge breath. Buddy, you do not want to go there with me. Hewheeled. Months ago, he’d have clocked the guy. Instead, with every ounce ofcontrol at his disposal, he took a page from Gage Nelson’s handbook and grittedout, “Hey, I admire your loyalty. Hockey needs more fans like you.”
On a spin, T.J. caught the guy’s confused expression. Hegave the terrified-looking clerk a nod and strode from the store. Behind him, theguy must have found his tongue because he started hurling more insults thatT.J. took a pass on acknowledging.
Reaching the Hummer, relieved to find it and Ford intact,T.J. practically vaulted inside. No one was coming after him when he checkedhis rearview. “At least my dog likes me,” he muttered. Ford yipped as ifbacking up his statement.
As T.J. nosed it onto the street, a number he didn’trecognize rang. Maybe it was Troy or Mark from No Excuses!,telling him they’d finally scored some court time for their next game. He wasexcited to attend.
“Hey.”
“Mr. Shanstrom?” a clipped malevoice said.
“Speaking.”
“Jacob Pederson here.”
The name jangled a bell … and a nerve.
“I’m the attorney for the Earthquake, Mr. Shanstrom. We met the day after,” a dramatic pause, “theunfortunate incident.”
Gray-blond hair and a ferret face floated into view. T.J.leashed his distaste. “What can I do for you, Mr. Pederson?”
“I’m calling to let you know ownership has been served withan intent to sue for a laundry list of groundless offenses. As you were a teammember at the time, your name is listed. I wanted to personally alert you that you’ll be receiving a copy.”
Dumbfounded, T.J. stared out the windshield, vaguely awareof cars moving all around him like spawning salmon. “But they still don’t knowif he’ll recover. Can they do that?”
“They can do whatever the hell they want.”
Christ, the guy was a total asshole. “What are theramifications?”
“Nothing for now. But I reiterate it’s best for allconcerned, especially yourself, if you continue to respect the gag order. Ialso caution you against moving assets. Courts don’t look fondly on peopletrying to hide their money.” On that cheery note, Pederson hung up.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The inevitability had just arrived, coming up on T.J. like apissed-off semi in the rearview mirror. Blaring, bearing down, all grill. Thisshit was unsettling, and it was just getting started.
He rolled to a stop at a red light and roved his eyes over atrio of ragged homeless people sitting on flattened cardboard. No way to tellif they were men or women. Wonder if that’ll be me after May’s takeneverything I’ve got? Oddly, the thought of losing the money didn’t botherhim as much as it should have. He’d been raised without it and had consequentlyconditioned himself not to count on it. NHL careers were short. After blowingthrough paychecks early on, he’d throttled back and turned his earnings over tohis financial advisor. Yeah, he owned an expensive Hummer, but it was his onlyvehicle, unlike a lot of guys he knew. The house in San Jose and the condo inDenver were upscale but not stupid extravagant—neither had its own bowlingalley, racquetball court, or gold toilets.
The light was still red, so he scrolled through his phoneand swiped a name he’d put off calling for too long. When the receptionistpicked up, he said, “Hi. I’m T.J. Shanstrom, and I was referred by Beckett Miller. I’d like to speak to TomCarlisle, please.”
.~* * * ~.
Natalie parked along a tree-linedcurb. She’d always loved the homes in the 7th Avenue Historic District. The oneoutside her window was newer—probably built after knocking down a few old brickones—but not garish. An understated, cream-colored stucco and stone affair setback from the street, it reminded her of Rocky Mountain Mediterranean, if therewas such a thing. Definitely someplace a successful businesswoman and herpro-athlete husband would live.
Natalie rang the doorbell, taking in a peaked entry with aleaded window that topped an enormous set of oak double doors. One of the doorsopened, revealing a small, auburn-haired woman.
“You must be Natalie. I’m Paige.” Hand outstretched, Paigestepped toward her, her smile wide. Natalie had only seen a few pictures ofPaige Miller online—professional headshots—but she was still surprised by thediminutive woman sporting navy flats, faded jeans, and a denim-collared shirtunder a burgundy sweater. Paige Miller was all girl-next-door, of the Coloradovariety, and Natalie felt an instant kinship with her.
She accepted the woman’s warm, firm grasp. “I am. It’s sonice to meet you.” Paige led her into a marble-floored foyer and closed thedoor with a solid thud. Natalie’s eyes darted to an elegant, wood-paneledoffice with two paper-littered desks. Opposite was a pristine sitting room witha fireplace and a baby grand piano. Two completely differentworlds.
“The mess there is my office,” Paige motioned to the desks,“and that’s Beckett’s refuge
