How was it that in this day and age a person could not be on social media? Ryker pondered this question as he angled the newly purchased digital camera to fit in his computer bag while he waited for the barista to finish making his tall dark roast with an extra shot. There were fan pages and the official team page, but Timothée didn’t have a single personal social media account—unless he counted the one with the breakfast burrito that had been created seven years ago and hadn’t been active for six and a half of that. And according to Timothée, a friend had been responsible for signing him up.
Since he knew Timothée wouldn’t do it, the burden fell to Ryker, but creating them now would be tricky. If he opened too many accounts or posted too much too quickly, it would be flagged as an unauthentic publicity stunt.
As he waited, his phone buzzed with a text message from Lesley. Pronto, the message read followed by a link. Stinks of trouble. He clicked the link, and it took him to a video on the WJJ sports page.
“Today’s top story On Court Off Court is the continuous coverage of the fatal shooting that took the lives of Northcove Mutineer left winger Timothée Croneau’s parents in their sprawling Mandeville mecca.”
Is he doing the sports or a reboot of The Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous?
A menacing photo of Timothée filled the screen. Crap. Ryker recognized it from the Civets game after Timothée went berserk in the penalty box.
“The couple, viewed by many as pillars of the community, was discovered by their housekeeper and reportedly had been dead for more than eight hours. Since that time, there has been an outpouring of anger, outrage, sadness, and disbelief. Mourners have been arriving in droves to place flowers at the gates of the estate, which have been sealed with crime scene tape.”
Ryker exchanged his credit card for the coffee with the barista.
“Community leaders and other affluent residents of Mandeville have made several public statements of how much the couple will be missed. Oddly, the one person who has remained peculiarly silent is the couple’s only child, Timothée Croneau. However, this may not be as strange as first perceived. Croneau was named by police as a person of interest, but the status may be upgraded to suspect as the police continue to collect evidence. Croneau is known for his explosive temper. A document obtained by WJJ indicates that Croneau has a history of psychiatric hospitalizations with diagnoses that include paranoia and antisocial personality disorder.”
“Fuck a duck!” He fumbled the coffee a fraction of an inch from his parted lips, and it spilled down the front of his shirt with a burn. “Son of a….” His stomach instantly vaulted to bubble guts.
Other customers cast him admonishing stares.
“Sorry,” he muttered, all but snatching his credit card from the barista and rushing out to the parking lot.
His cell rang. He didn’t have to look at the screen to know who was calling. Lesley. Answering, he didn’t bother with the niceties of a greeting. “I’m on it.”
“On it? You’re supposed to be controlling the media. What document are they talking about? Who’s the source? When did this supposedly happen?” Lesley fired the questions without taking a breath.
Jesus, take the wheel. “How am I supposed to know?”
“Oh, but I thought you had such close friends in that camp?”
Ryker clenched his jaw at the snark in her tone. “I never said that.”
“I haven’t been gone forty-eight hours, and I’ve seen nothing from you.”
“Damn, Lesley, I spent half the day making preliminary funeral arrangements. I’m on my way to pick up the death certificates to fax them before meeting with Timothée to write the obit when you called.”
“Wait. You’re not with Timothée?”
“He’s at practice.”
“You let him go to practice?” Lesley yelled, causing Ryker to flinch and pull the phone away from his ear. “Do you have a brain?”
“It’s obvious we’re not thinking about the same person. No one lets Timothée do anything. Timothée does what Timothée wants to do.”
“So you allow him to run amok.”
“He’s not amok.” He arrived at his car and climbed in. “Even salt looks like sugar.”
“What?”
Ryker trawled through the console and grabbed a handful of crumpled but clean napkins. He dabbed at his soiled shirt. “What I mean is keeping to his normal routine calms him.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Not in so many words. But he said hockey players don’t like change. I think it’s a coping mechanism for him.”
“You’re not there to be his psychoanalyst.” She made a tsking sound. “You know, if the media gets wind of this, they won’t see it that way.”
Unfortunately, he did.
“What do you plan to do about it?” she continued.
“I’ll get with Mace Gardner and compose a statement to post on social media.”
“Timothée doesn’t have—”
“I know,” Ryker interrupted. “I told you I’m on it.”
Lesley released a long breath. “Don’t screw this up,” she finally replied and then disconnected.
Shit, shit, shit!
“We need to talk about your parents,” Ryker insisted.
“No we don’t.” Timothée stalked out of the dry stall room to the stick room with Ryker following at his heels. He weaved through the rows of shelving and stopped at stick racks. Reaching to the top rack, he retrieved a stick still wrapped in its packing paper.
Like a kid on Christmas morning, Timothée tore into the plastic, discarding the paper. Some of it managed to make it into the trash receptacle that Timothée blindly aimed for. Once unwrapped, he stared at the stick as if he’d never seen one. He inspected it inch by slow inch until he’d taken it all in. His expression only changed a fraction, but the shift was enough for Ryker to notice. Familiarity. Comfort. He turned the stick in his hand, testing the weight and feel, and then stroked it from butt to toe. “Hello, twiggy,” he whispered to the stick.
“Tim—”
“Shh.” Carrying the stick like a sacrificial offering to an altar, Timothée crossed the room and proceeded to a table saw in the adjacent equipment room. He placed the blade flat on the floor, held the shaft against his body, and drew a line on the stick slightly below his nose with a marker. “They’re not all the same, you know.”
“Who aren’t?”
“The twigs. They’re like cars. They all come from the same company, made by the same machines, but each performs differently. There are slight imperfections invisible to the eye.” He positioned the stick on the saw and made a slice. “The companies won’t admit it, of course. They try to convince you it’s all in your head.” He stood the stick on the floor and looked across the top. “Call you crazy and paranoid.”
Ryker rubbed his hand across his forehead. Oh, so this is where this is going. He hadn’t planned on diving into that subject until after he’d gotten the obituary sorted. He preferred to lead the conversation because he’d learned Timothée discussed serious matters like a game of tag. He’d broach the subject, manipulate it to be about the other person, and then hightail it out as fast as he could. “You saw Toby Harrelson’s report.”
Timothée aligned the stick against a sander and moved it until he achieved a squared edge. Shutting off the sander, he looked at Ryker. “I saw.”
“And?”
“And what?” Taking the stick, he crossed the room and scanned a row of cubbyholes stacked with rolls of tape of different widths and textures. Half the rolls were white and the remainder black. He selected a wide black grip tape, pulled a short section from the roll, and meticulously leveled it with the butt of the stick. “Your miraculous plan to fix things isn’t working?”
“You haven’t given it time or me anything to work with.”
Timothée wound the tape around the butt of the stick eight times, pulled it tightly downward, and then wrapped six more times. He continued this downward-spiral wrapping four times, then two, and finally one, and stopped a fraction above the printed company logo on the shaft. “My numbers should be good enough. I know they look like shit right now, but put it into perspective of what’s going on with the rest of the team.” He ran his hand up and down the taped area, smoothing any wrinkles.
Ryker scanned the room. They were alone. “What document was he talking about?”
Timothée replaced the tape on the shelf, selected a wider roll, and inverted his stick so that the butt rested on the floor. “You assume there is one.”
“Harrelson’s a liar, but he isn’t stupid. He pushes the truth just enough to avoid being liable for slander. He has something.”
Timothée shrugged, his eyes locked on the blade of the stick as he evened the tape and began winding heel to toe, careful not to overlap more than a sixteenth of an inch. When he reached the end, he tore the tape from the roll and squeezed his hands along the blade. “This brand doesn’t adhere as well since the company switched manufacturers.”
“Tim, talk to me.”
Timothée’s eyes darted up from the blade and studied Ryker. It was only present for a split second, but Ryker saw it—shame.
“I won’t judge you,” he assured, his voice low and empathic. He wanted to take Timothée into his arms and hold him, but he knew he couldn’t for both their sakes.
“What happened to your shirt?” He motioned to the coffee stain.
“Timothée, please.”
“Answer it however you see fit, and I’ll go along with the narrative, okay?”
Ryker stepped closer to Timothée, invading his personal space. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“It does if you want it. Make it.”
“Sure, I could fabricate an extra juicy story that would have people salivating at the mouth or gaslight everyone. And it’ll work for a while until it gets exposed, and then what? Create more lies to cover?” He shifted his weight. “Your character is already being assaulted. Do you want it to turn into a gang bang? Because the media won’t hesitate to fuck you at every angle.”
Chirp, chirp…
Come on, babe. Open up. Talk to me. “If you don’t want Harrelson reporting on the story, we can get it to someone else. I know plenty of reporters who would jump to have an exclusive.”
Timothée retreated, returned the tape to its place, and shuffled to another cubbyhole housing discs of wax. When he opened the tin, the scent of strawberry-kiwi fragranced the air. He made several strokes along the blade, each slower and shorter than the previous, before turning to look at Ryker. “I’m done here.” He flipped his stick right side up.
Ryker sighed. “Okay, how about we flip for it? If I win, you tell me what happens. If you win, I’ll write you a Pulitzer prize-winning smokescreen.”
“Flipping isn’t how problems are professionally resolved in hockey.”
“How are they, then?”
“Rock, paper, scissors.”
Of course. Silly me. Why wouldn’t I know how professional rock, paper, scissors is? “Fine. On three.”
Timothée leaned his stick against the wall and assumed the position of the game by placing his right fist in his left palm. Ryker did the same. Ryker counted it off, and both tapped their closed playing hand against their palm in unison. On three, both flattened their hands to form paper.
“Tie. Again,” Timothée ordered.
Ryker repeated the count off, and they both made a sign.
“I win,” Ryker gloated.
“Shit,” Timothée grumbled, staring at his two extended fingers forming a V in front of Ryker’s fist. Rocks breaks scissors. “Go again. Best two out of three.”
“Nope, that wasn’t the rule. But I must admit this is a very effective way to solve problems. I’ll have to remember it,” Ryker replied, smirking.