CHAPTER TWO

“We’ve only got one potential client that’s coming in today. Didn’t really give a lot of information, only that they suspected that a friend was murdered,” said Whiskey.

“Well, I’d say that’s a plus for us. Not for the dead guy, but we could use a break. We’ll take this one and be done until after the holidays. If possible,” said Nine, shrugging with a grin. They always said they’d ‘take a break,’ and the break never happened.

“What’s the word on baby patrol?” smirked Gaspar.

“Maddie and Daphne are both due any day now. I’m honestly surprised that Maddie has lasted this long,” said Wilson. “She’s on bed rest, but those babies are damn near ready to pop out for sure. Then, of course, there’s Brooke, Harlow, Lyra, Dana, and Caroline, all ready to pop at any time.”

“More babies,” smirked Miller. “Mama must be in seventh heaven. Hell, even I’m smitten with all the little ones. Those damn twins of Marcel’s are the cutest kids I’ve seen in a while.”

“There’s something about them that’s a little magical,” said Antoine. “I don’t know what. But they’re different. Like they can read your thoughts or something. They just stare up at you with those big eyes and tilt their heads one way, then the other, and they do it at the same damn time.”

“Who knows?” shrugged Gaspar. “Anything is possible around here.” Ace tapped the doorframe and stepped inside.

“Hey, uh, our client is here.”

“Okay,” said Ghost. “Show him in.”

“Well, I will, but I’m telling y’all right now if this guy decides to get pissed off, you’re gonna need Tailor, Alec, Rory, and the rest of Team Big.”

The men all frowned at one another. Trak stood and moved toward the corner. If needed, he could move quicker on his feet than in a chair. They heard Ace speaking to someone and then the sounds of heavy footsteps. As the man appeared in the doorway, he ducked, turning slightly sideways as he moved through the big frame.

All of the doorways were taller and wider than usual to accommodate the sizes of the men on their teams. If this guy was ducking and turning, that said a lot about him.

“Jesus,” muttered Alec. “That must be what people see when we walk in the room.”

“Team, this is Trevon Marks, center for the New Orleans Fire.”

“I can damn sure see that,” smirked Ian. “Have a seat, Mr. Marks.”

“Just Trevon,” he smiled. He turned to see Alec and Tailor and raised his brows. “Your doors are a bit higher and wider. That’s nice for a guy like me and I suppose for all of you as well. You two played?”

“Some,” said Alec. “High school and a bit in college for both of us. Nothing like what you do.”

“Looks to me like you could still play,” he smiled. The others chuckled, then his face sobered, and he looked down at the table, his massive hands folded in front of him.

“Are you okay, Trevon?” asked Ghost.

“No, sir. I don’t think I am. I’m not sure if you keep up on minor league sports, but we lost our longtime quarterback this week, Butch Cavet. They suspect that he committed suicide, but I don’t buy it for a minute. He’s been my best friend for ten years now.”

“I’m damn sorry,” said Nine.

“Me too. Butch took a nasty hit a few weeks ago, a cheap shot if you ask me. It was his fourth or fifth concussion, and it was bad. Dude was having serious mood swings, forgetting things, acting strange all the way.”

“We’ve all had concussions from our time in service,” said Gaspar. “They’re damn sure no fun.”

“No, sir. They are not. Butch, he was hardheaded and wanted to play again. The league, the doctors, even the team were telling him he should retire. I’d had a couple of conversations with him to get him to see that he could still be part of football without dying while playing. He didn’t care for those thoughts at all.”

“Sometimes, it’s hard to give up all you’ve ever known,” said Ian. Hell, they were all there because they couldn’t give up helping others.

“It is. Butch was being stubborn, but I knew that eventually he would make the right decision. Last Tuesday, we were all on the field finishing practice. Butch was on the sidelines, just riding the stationary bike and doing a few throws and drills with the trainers. We were still going at it, full-on pads, but he went into the training room. He had one of the trainers prepare an ice bath for him.” The men all nodded their heads.

“Coach tried to talk to Butch, but he was being stubborn, so he left him there. A few hours later, he realized the lights were still on in the training room and went back. There was water and ice all over the floor, and Butch was still sitting inside the tub. He was blue from the cold. And from being dead.”

“Damn,” muttered Antoine. “What did the coroner say?”

“Nothing yet. He says there’s a lot involved with this one, and the league and the owner are calling the shots on it. Butch was never married but had a seventeen-year-old daughter in Arizona. They weren’t close, but Butch did everything in his power to make sure she had a good life, and he was trying to get closer to her. I think they’d made some headway in the last few years, but it was rough going for him. The league is pretty sensitive anymore about concussions, and they want to be sure of the cause of death.”

“Sounds like they’re doing everything right,” said Nine.

“They are,” he nodded, “except there was an obvious sign of death. His wrists were slit. No razor or knife found. No sharp objects anywhere. Only his blood was in the ice bath and on the floor.”

“Nothing?” asked Gaspar.

“Nothing. Listen, I knew Butch. He would have been pissed about having to leave football, but he would never have offed himself. That wasn’t him. He loved life, and he loved the game of football more than anything. Plus, he was determined to make sure Carigan, his daughter, had all she needed.”

“We’ve learned to trust our gut, Trevon. What does your gut tell you?” asked Nine.

“There are so many suspects in my mind I can’t even begin,” he said, shaking his head. “Kurt Michaels is the new starting QB. He’s been waiting in the wings for a while with Butch starting, and Butch was actually doing a great job of mentoring him. But Kurt’s a kid still, twenty-six or so. He was getting impatient.”

“That’s one,” frowned Ian.

“Petey Rossi, offensive tackle. Butch has been really giving shit to the offensive line for not protecting him well enough. I knew Butch. I knew he didn’t really mean it, but I can’t say it didn’t hurt. My body takes a beating trying to protect his ass. Comments like that don’t win you friends. Petey was pissed. His contract was up for renewal, and he was hoping to get traded for more money.”

“There’s two,” growled Jean.

“Joe Sheffler was the lineman who hit Butch the last time. The shot was dirty all the way. I have the clip if you want to see,” he said, holding up his phone.

Code took the device and connected it to the screen. He clicked on the video, and they all watched as the massive lineman went headfirst into Butch, then leaned over him and pointed.

“What did he say to him?” asked Tailor.

“’Sorry, old man.’ Joe’s been an asshole for a while now. Taking cheap shots on a lot of people. Usually, as the center, I watch for him and get to him quickly, stopping him. I missed him this time, and I hate myself for it,” he said.

“You can’t be everywhere at once, Trevon,” said Alec.

“It was my job to be everywhere at once. Which brings me to the next person. Me.”

“You?” frowned the entire room.

“I have to include myself in all of this. I mean, I didn’t kill Butch, but I was getting pissed at him. He was making our jobs harder and wouldn’t listen to us. Coach Osterhausen, the owners of the team, the Pinken family, hell, I guess I could keep going.”

“Sounds like he pissed off a lot of people,” said Gaspar. “Is there any indication that he had CTE?”

CTE, or chronic traumatic encephalopathy, is a disease directly related to numerous concussions, most commonly in football or other contact sports. But all of the men on the Gray Wolf team knew men who had experienced the same thing in the service.

“It’s one of the things the coroner is going to look at. I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Butch was different these last few months. I know that Carigan was being a little bitch to her father. I didn’t really mean that, but she was giving him a lot of shit and just being a teenager, I guess.”

“You said they weren’t close,” said Gabe. “Why?”

“Her mom and Butch were a fling. He met her at the pro-bowl, and they spent a hot four days together. The result was Carigan. She didn’t want to marry him, and he felt the same. But he never abandoned that little girl. That kid has gone to the best schools. He bought them a gorgeous eight-bedroom home outside of Scottsdale. She’s had the best of everything, but damn, that girl was nasty to Butch.”

“Was the mother feeding her shit about her father?” asked Miller.

“Naw. I mean, Lara wasn’t like that. She and Butch made decisions together. She never asked him for more money. Hell, she made a good living as a marketing analyst for a big company out west. I don’t know.”

“Should we put the daughter on the list?” asked Miller.

“No. Yes. Fuck, maybe,” he said, shaking his head.

“You’re tired,” said Nine. “Why don’t you join us for lunch, and we’ll talk some more.”

Trevon looked at the room and smiled, shaking his head again.

“Hell, by the looks of all of you, someone knows how to cook, so fuck yeah. Maybe you guys can give me some pointers on this weekend’s game. We play Philly.”

“Let’s go, brother,” smiled Tailor. “I got a play that will work every time.”