Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Leia

"This douche is the most boring bookie I’ve ever tailed," Colter complains for the fifth time this afternoon, scowling at the grocery store across the street. Gavin went inside fifteen minutes ago with a shopping cart. "He’s been running errands all damn day."

"You didn’t have to come," I remind him, fighting a smile. It’s easy to see why he plays hockey. He wouldn’t last long at a desk job. He has too much energy and not nearly enough patience. "Also, when have you ever tailed a bookie before?"

"Mind your business, Trouble. Maybe I do this kind of shit all the time."

"Uh huh." I roll my eyes, curling my leg up in the seat beneath me. "And I play professional hockey in my spare time because it’s fun."

He cracks a smile, chuckling. "Smart ass."

I grin at him, although he’s right. Tailing Gavin is boring. He hasn’t done anything interesting all day. Maybe because the next game isn’t even in town? I don’t know. But I’m never going to figure out what he’s up to this way. "Okay, since you’re helping me with this story, you can answer my questions. What do you know about sports betting?"

"Enough not to do it," Colter says. "I like my job. I’d prefer to keep it."

"You’d get fired if you bet on a game?" I root around in my bag for a pen and paper to take some notes.

"For betting on AHL games? Possibly. For betting on your own games? You’re likely to be permanently banned from the league. It’s essentially insider trading," he explains. "As a player on the team, you have access to information others don’t, like tension in lines, plays, and player injuries. Using that to place bets on your own games gives you an unfair advantage."

"Oh. Guess I never thought of it that way." I scribble notes, trying to hit the highlights.

"Not to mention, every team in the AHL is associated with an NHL team. The NHL is strict about shit like this. Most of the guys in the AHL want to be called up to the NHL. Getting busted for betting on AHL games will sink those dreams fast."

"So why would someone do it?"

"Money talks. We aren’t making bank playing for the AHL, Trouble. Most players make less than sixty a year. If the price is right, certain players might be willing to impact the outcome of the game to line their pockets."

"Seems like a lot to risk to me," I mutter, glancing up from my notebook. The parking lot of the grocery store is filling up with late afternoon shoppers. Most look like parents grabbing things on their way to pick up the kids from school. They’re all in a hurry. Gavin’s Range Rover still straddles two spots near the doors.

"Isn’t that usually how it works?" Colter asks. "People bet the farm hoping for the mansion. They win a little and get hooked."

"You think that’s what happened with Bruce Gordon? He tried to throw the game because he’s hooked?"

"I’m not sure Gordon was trying to throw the game."

"You aren’t?" That surprises me. Why is he helping me if he thinks Bruce Gordon is innocent?

Colter shakes his head, his brows furrowed. "He wasn’t playing to lose out there," he murmurs. "His only goal was taking me out."

I consider that for a moment. Why would Bruce want Colter out of the game so badly? Why would Gavin? "I don’t suppose you’re a hockey prodigy, are you?"

"I played for the NHL for a few seasons before I got sent back down for an injury," he says. "But that was a decade ago. I’m good, but not like I used to be."

I sigh. "Well, there goes my theory, then."

His lips twitch. "I’m almost afraid to ask."

"There’s a hockey bounty on your head," I say as dramatically as possible. "Fifty pounds to any player that takes you down."

He chuckles and then his laughter fades. He sits forward abruptly. "Fuck. Why didn’t I think of that?"

"What?"

"The NFL."

"Huh?"

"Ten years ago, there was a scandal in the NFL with a team that was allegedly paying players to injure players on other teams. They called it Bountygate." Colter grabs his phone and pulls up an article before passing it over to me.

I quickly skim it, my brows climbing as I read what happened. Apparently, it was a huge deal that resulted in the team involved paying a massive fine, the coaching staff and general manager facing sanctions with the NFL, and players being suspended, though the player suspensions were later overturned since the entire situation was instigated by the coaching staff.

"Wow," I whisper, passing the phone back to Colter. "You think something like that is happening here?"

"Who met with Gavin last week?"

"Jimmy Brinks."

Colter shoves his phone into his pocket, his expression grim. "He tried like hell to needle Reid into a fight last week."

My stomach sinks.

"If bookies are paying players to injure or knock players out of games, perhaps they’re trying to find a way to capitalize on a nationwide bounty system."

"That’s not good."

"Fuck no, it’s not," he growls. "Every goddamn sporting league in the nation will be at the mercy of bookies and the players in their pockets."

"I think we need to talk to Bruce Gordon."

"Or we can skip that bullshit and go straight to the source."

"What do you mean?"

He nods straight ahead.

I glance out of the window to see Gavin strolling toward his SUV with two bags of groceries in his hands. "We can’t ask him. He’ll deny everything."

"I didn’t say we should ask him, Trouble," Colter says, his voice grim. "I’m a player. If we need confirmation that he’s doing this, we don’t have to go to Gordon or Brinks and hope they confess. All we have to do is get word to Gavin that I’m looking to make a little extra cash and let the chips fall where they will."

"That’s a terrible idea."

"Why?"

"Because…because…"

"It’s the best plan we’ve got, goddess," he murmurs, reaching out to touch my cheek. "You just don’t like it because you don’t want me getting hurt."

"That doesn’t mean I like you," I lie.

"Yeah, it does."

"Fine, maybe it does," I grumble, my stomach quivering with nerves and anxiety. "But it’s still a bad idea. We don’t know anything about who he’s involved with or how deep this runs or if he’s working alone. He’s not exactly poor, and I don’t think he won his mansion gambling. So putting you on his radar may be putting you on the radar of very bad people."

"Then let’s go find out."

"What? How?"

"Buckle up, Trouble," he says by way of answer. "We’re going to see the Wizard."

"We’re going to see who?"

Apparently, Sheriff Dillon Armstrong is the Wizard because Colter takes me to the Sheriff’s Department. I guess that makes Silver Spoon Falls the Land ofOz in his crazy brain. The man is a menace, I swear.

He might also be right. He may be our best shot at figuring out what Gavin is doing that involves AHL players because I don’t think Bruce Gordon is going to tell us even if we fly to Arizona to ask. He isn’t going to incriminate himself, especially if the truth may cost him his career. I doubt Jimmy Brinks will, either. But if Colter offers himself up to Gavin, he’ll be able to confirm whether or not Gavin is offering players cash to take out other players.

Being the one to break a story like that would be monumental. But this is bigger than just a story at this point. If bookies and illegal gambling rings are trying to gain a foothold in sports betting this way, it could be disastrous for players. How many will be injured, not just in the AHL, but in every major and minor sports league in the United States? The potential fallout is almost too big to consider.

Of course it’d happen here, where rich men come to grow richer. This town is overrun with millionaires and billionaires who move where the money takes them. Some of them—most of the ones I’ve met, actually—are amazing people. But most isn’t all. Not a lot of people become obscenely wealthy because they’re paragons of virtue.

The super rich like to accumulate wealth and hang onto it. That leaves them vulnerable to all kinds of misdeeds and dark plots. It wouldn’t take much for a guy like Gavin to convince his rich friends to buy into this scheme if it offers a lucrative enough return. It makes a place like Silver Spoon Falls the perfect breeding ground for a scheme like this.

And I really thought life here would be boring. I guess I should have known better, considering Adalynn was almost kidnapped from the bar where she works right after she moved here. Boring doesn’t seem to be in the cards for any of us Marsh girls.

"Why are we here?" I ask Colter as he helps me out of his truck.

"To see the sheriff. Figured if anyone knows anything about your bookie, he does." He tips my face up to his, his hazel eyes practically glowing as he examines my expression. "Not sure how I feel about letting you walk into a station full of cops looking like you do, though."

My lips pull down into a frown. I’m wearing my favorite suit. It makes my boobs look phenomenal. I may have picked it hoping I’d see Colter again today. "What’s wrong with the way I look?"

"You’re too fucking beautiful," he growls, genuinely distressed. "How do I even hope to be worthy of a goddess when the whole goddamn town will be trying to steal her away?"

Just like that, he slips into my heart, laying claim to the biggest piece of it. Crap. I’m falling for this madman. This is bad. This is so bad.

Oh, who am I trying to fool? I’ve been falling for him since I met the crazy man in the locker room. It’s fast and intense, but it feels a little like breathing. If, you know, I was running a race while trying to breathe. My point is, falling for him is exciting and terrifying but it feels right, too.

"Colter?"

"Yeah, Trouble?"

"There is no competition," I whisper. "There’s just you."

"Fuck." He presses his forehead to mine, exhaling a breath.

"Kiss me."

His lips touch mine. I think he intends it to be a short, chaste kiss, but neither of us are capable of that.

We end up making out against the side of his truck in the middle of the parking lot like horny teenagers. It’s his fault. That mouth is a deadly weapon. As soon as he kisses me, I ignite like kindling. Every piece of me goes up in flames, burning for him.

"Goddamn, Trouble," he groans, pressing his face to my throat. "You’re trying to get us arrested, aren’t you? Saying shit like that when I’m already two seconds from bending you over and seeing just how smart that mouth is when you’re begging me to let you come."

My core clenches as desire shoots through me. I want that. I want him. But two can play this game of his. "Maybe you’ll be the one begging, Colter. You should probably start practicing now. I bet you’ll sound adorable asking me for permission."

He nips my throat. "Keep fucking around, and we’re going to find out how much you like being punished, Trouble. Think you can count smacks with my dick down your throat?"

Oh my gosh. He’s filthy.

Wait. Why do I like it?

"Tease me again, and we’ll find out," he growls in my ear before slowly peeling himself off me.

Naturally, he looks cool as a cucumber. Meanwhile, my dang legs are wobbly. He notices and smirks at me.

"Let’s go talk to the sheriff, Trouble. I’ve got plans for you later."

Gulp.

Sheriff Dillon Armstrong isn’t thrilled to see us. And by us, I mean me. He’s in the lobby when we step inside. I think he’s watching television, even though he has a pad of paper in his hands and is acting like he’s taking notes about whatever the elderly man standing across from him is saying.

He glances from the TV to us. His gaze runs over Colter first. He quickly assesses him, gives him a nod, then looks at me. I think he ages ten years right in front of my eyes. Weary acceptance and a healthy dose of wariness enter his expression.

"Randall, I’ll swing by tomorrow and talk to Jeff about the property line again. But this isn’t a criminal matter. It’s a civil dispute."

"He’s trespassing!" Randall protests.

"He’s mowing his yard for crying out loud," Dillon says, clearly exasperated with the old man. "If you don’t want him running the mower right up against the property line, put up a fence, but it’s got to be mowed one way or another. How do you expect him to do that without touching your side?"

"He could get a smaller mower," Randall sniffs. "The one he’s using is just obscene."

"Right. Well, I can’t force him to buy a smaller mower. Unless you want to start mowing along the property line..."

"Me?" Randall sounds horrified by the prospect.

"Didn’t think so." Dillon flips his notebook closed. "I’ll swing by tomorrow to talk to Jeff and see what we can work out."

"Thanks, Sheriff." Randall seems satisfied with this and scurries out, beaming like he won the turf war.

"Jesus Christ," Dillon mutters to himself before he stomps toward us. "I’m ready to build a damn fence myself if it keeps Randall Johnson out of my damn office every week. No one warned me another Marsh sister was moving to town. Why didn’t anyone warn me?"

"I wasn’t aware you needed advanced notice about little ole me," I say, batting my lashes. Dillon’s wife, Jules, works with Charlie’s husband’s twin. We tend to spend time with the same people.

He snorts. "How the hell else am I supposed to know when to plan my retirement? How long have you been here?"

"Six weeks."

"I’m six weeks overdue to retire, then."

Colter glances between us. "I take it she’s not the only troublemaker in her family?"

Dillon throws his head back and laughs. "The only one? Shit, she isn’t even the worst one."

"We aren’t troublemakers," I protest.

"Charlie couldn’t stay out of trouble if you paid her. She was just in here two days ago, causing me problems."

"Okay, so maybe she’s the exception," I relent with a laugh. Charlie is kind of a menace.

Dillon smiles, shaking his head. "She isn’t the exception, but I’ll let you go with that. Why are you here? And does Razor know you’re running around with a hockey player?"

"Razor isn’t the boss of me," I sniff, rolling my eyes. "Colter’s helping me with a story."

"Right." Dillon draws the word out, making it clear he thinks I’m just feeding him a line. "Do you make out in parking lots with everyone who helps you with a story?"

I gape at him. How could he possibly know that?

He points toward the TV.

"Crap," I whisper. It’s a live feed showing different angles around the parking lot and inside the building. Every inch of space is covered…including the passenger side of Colter’s truck.

"Your lipstick is smudged too."

I turn a dirty glare on Colter, who just shrugs.

"Don’t look at me like that, Trouble. You’re the one who started it," he reminds me.

"Revisionist history," I mutter, totally fine living in denial.

"You two been drinking the water around here?" Dillon asks, his gaze flickering between us.

"What else would we drink?" Colter eyes him oddly.

I just groan. I’ve heard the stories about the water in town. They’re silly legends. I glance at Colter. Or maybe they aren’t.

"Mmhmm." Dillon grins like the dang cat that ate the canary. "Thought so."

Ugh. We don’t have time for this.

"We need to know what you know about Gavin Cochran," I say.

Dillon frowns. "Why?"

"I’m not sure yet," I admit. "It may be nothing. Or it could be the biggest scandal in sports history."

"Explain."

"We think he may be paying players to knock other players out of games in some sort of bounty system," I say.

"Why would he do that?"

"Imagine if you could not only bet on games but could bet that a player from X team would be injured, thrown out, or given a specific penalty, " Colter adds.

"Shit."

"Now, imagine if you could bet on which player that would be. That’s a whole new revenue stream for bookies, especially if you’re taking bets across every sports league."

"That’s big money."

"Real big," Colter agrees.

Dillon worries his bottom lip with his teeth. "Do you have any proof?"

"Not yet, but I took photos of Gavin and Bruce Gordon exchanging money before the game on Wednesday," I say.

"And Gordon did everything he could to push me into getting myself thrown out of the game that night," Colter adds.

"I saw that."

"Seems odd that a player from Arizona would be meeting a bookie in Silver Spoon Falls right before the game he then got himself and another player ejected from, don’t you think?" I ask Dillon.

"It’s certainly fucking questionable," Dillon agrees, his tone grim.

"He’s not the only one. Gavin also met with Jimmy Brinks when the Timberwolves were in town. And guess who tried to get Reid Lawless thrown out of the game?"

"Shit," Dillon growls. "I don’t know much about Gavin. He used to work on Wall Street before he moved here. We’ve heard rumors that he’s into gambling, but he tends to operate under the radar. If he’s working with anyone, he’s doing it quietly. I can look into him and see what I can shake loose, but we have nothing on him otherwise."

A dead-end. Great. My shoulders droop.

"Looks like my plan is the best plan we’ve got, goddess," Colter says.

I nod reluctantly. It certainly looks like it.