Teardrop Shot(23)

“Yes. We need tubs.”

“Tubs?” His eyebrows rose.

I nodded. “Tubs and other stuff. Water. Sports drinks. Towels.” I indicated the spot behind him. “He wants a table set up there with all of that, and a second one outside. And he wants ice for the tubs.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound so bad.” He had twisted around, probably gauging what size table he’d need to get.

“No, no.” I leaned forward and tugged on his sleeve.

He looked back.

I knew what he was thinking. “He doesn’t want the tubs for drinks or food.” Because that was a normal thing here. “He wants the tubs for the guys, for ice baths.”

And now I waited.

“Are you kidding?” His eyebrows pulled together, matching the sides of his mouth. “Fucking ice baths?”

I smiled. “Keith told him we could do that.”

He swore under his breath. “Goddamn fucking Keith. Where the hell are we going to find tubs that size? We’ve never offered that service before.”

I had a feeling it was going to be a regular thing now. I said as much. “You know Keith will want to get more pro teams. He’ll put images of them on the website.”

Grant went back to growling because he knew I was right, and that meant it’d be on him to get it done. Finding tubs wouldn’t really be a problem. Grant hated ice. His only use for ice was making drinks colder, but because winter retreats were offered here during the off-season, that meant he had a large hockey rink to maintain. Then there were polar bear plunges. Igloo making. Ice carving. And I got the newsletter—they were boasting a brand new ice carnival. All of those jobs fell on Grant’s shoulders to maintain, and during a time when staff was cut in half and sometimes to a third of what he had during the summer.

He pulled his radio from his back and pressed the button. “Owen, you there?”

A crackle, then, “Owen here. What’s up?”

“We got enough ice to fill up a couple of tubs for ice baths?”

More crackling.

Owen said, “For what?”

“Ice baths.”

Crackle.

Crackle.

“Did you say ice paths?”

Grant swore.

The crackling intensified, and he swore some more.

He almost yelled into the radio, “Ice baths. B. B as in boy. Baths!”

“Psychopaths?”

“Goddamn!”

He wound up, ready to throw the radio over my head, but I lunged forward and grabbed it from him. He didn’t even resist. He walked in a tight circle, his arms tucked across his chest and his head down.

I pressed the button. “Owen, ice soaks.”

“Ooh! Yeah. We have enough. The machine is working fine.”

I pressed it again. “Thank you.” Let it go, then pressed it again. “Psychopath.” I said to Grant, “He was messing with you.”

Crackle.

Owen’s laughter sounded over the radio a second later. “I was just having fun. We’ll put out some buckets Grant can use. Owen, out.”

“Fuck this.” Grant started for the door, took one step, and twisted back to me. He took the radio in one hand, my arm in the other, and walked me out the door. “You’re helping me.”

A warm feeling exploded in me. I felt it shoot down my arms, and I couldn’t have stopped my smile if I’d tried.

This was the old Grant, the old dynamic of someone pushing on his buttons for the fun of it. The fact that it had been Owen made it even funnier, and like those previous years, Grant was huffing and puffing, but he was going to get the job done.

And I was going along for the ride, even though I was supposed to stay and man the gym.

“The cage, dude,” I said.

He growled. “Fuck that too.” He shot a look over his shoulder at Reese, who’d lined up for a three-pointer. The ball swished as Grant added, “Keith’s being paranoid if he thinks Reese Forster is going to steal a ball.”

“But where are we going? Tubs won’t have to be filled till after their practices.”

A hard bounce sounded behind us.

Grant hit the screen door with the palm of his hand. “You can help me bring all the stuff up.”

A second hard bounce.

We were out the door and walking for the main lodge when I felt a tingle in the back of my neck. I looked over my shoulder, and as Reese bounced the ball between his legs, I met his gaze.

A shiver ran all the way down my back.

I couldn’t read him. His face was locked down into an impassive wall, and I had to reflect for a second. He’d been pissy, furious, bossy, commanding, and then suddenly he’d laughed at me. Now there was nothing. He was devoid of all emotion.

His eyes were dead.





“The team has to go to their first preseason game. They have to use Fairview’s airport, so you’re going to go with them, show them the way.”

I blinked.

I saw the Boss mug first, then it moved from the opening in front of the cage’s window and Keith appeared. He was hitching his khaki shorts up, his belly jutting out even farther than normal because he wasn’t watching me. He was leaning against the cage, one of his legs crossed over the other, and he was watching the practice.

They’d been running drills for the last hour, with Reese and a few others sectioned off to the back corner. He was being fed basketballs as he was dribbling up to three at a time. He handled four at one point, but that was quickly shot off to the next person in line. They were taking turns, sending him the balls and he couldn’t lose control over any of them. He was bent down, a wide grin on his face, his eyes lit up. So not like the other day, when there’d been no look at all. Since then, he hadn’t looked at me. I was nonexistent.