Page 18 of Enemies in Paradise

I don’t know how long these girls will stay interested in hockey. The benders who can barely stay upright on the ice look close to tears, and Cora’s swinging her stick in circles, singing a song—I think it’s Taylor Swift—about being “ready for it.”

I have serious doubts any of these girls may ever be ready for hockey.

But Britta needs this.

To be honest, so do I.

A few months ago, Mom’s doctor told us she doesn’t have a lot of time left. Ever since we got that news, this hockey team is the one thing that makes Britta smile. We all knew the news was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier when we got it.

Zach and my other brother, Adam, are both newly married. Mom is irreplaceable, but they’ve got partners to help fill the hole her passing is going to leave behind. They’ll be too busy with their own projects and starting their own families to miss taking care of Mom.

Britta and I have each other and this team.

I’m not letting anything, or anyone—including a certain black-haired, green-eyed woman—get in the way of girls’ hockey in Paradise. Because it’s not just about the girls or hockey. It’s about finishing the one thing Mom couldn’t see all the way to success.

Chapter 5

Cassie

LA could take acue from Paradise’s most popular restaurant, the Garden of Eatin’. On the outside, it’s just the kind of kitschy place you’d expect to find in a small town named Paradise. Unassuming, in an old brick building with a sun-faded sign hanging haphazardly above the door.

Inside, it’s a different story. The décor is all soft lines and minimalist, similar to IKEA, but higher-end. And sturdier. The kitchen is mostly open, which means there’s no hiding how the food is made. That’s always a good sign. And, unlike so many trendy restaurants in LA, the food here is as simple and unassuming as the restaurant itself.

I’ve spent the past two days sitting on Georgia’s couch reading or binge-watching cozy mysteries, but she insisted I can’t stay in on Friday night. For a night out, the Garden of Eatin’ is ourbest choice, not only because it’s basically our only choice, but also because the food is too good to resist. In fact, it’s absolutely incredible.

The menu alone could keep the place packed with people from as far as a hundred miles away, but on weekends, the restaurant’s owner, Adam, play live music with his band. According to Georgia and Evie, they’re really good. But Adam is also Evie’s husband and Georgia’s brother-in-law, so I take their claims with a grain of salt.

Especially when I see who’s on drums: Bear Thomsen.

I should have known he’d be part of the band since he’s Adam’s brother, but here we are. Bear behind the drums, and me twenty feet away, working very hard to not look at the guy who’s decided to hate me just because we both want the same old building.

Except he wants to use it to store a broken-down old car that doesn’t do anybody any good. I want to bring books to a little town where the kids need something to do while they’re waiting for the irrigation pond to freeze.

Not that there’s anything wrong with a little hockey. I enjoy hockey as much as the next person. At least…as much as the next person who isn’t from LA, where there are a lot of pro sports teams to cheer for. And maybe not as much as some people around here who have plastered their trucks with Salt Lake Miners bumper stickers.

The point is, books are better than hockey. And cute bookstores are better than run-down, boarded-up auto shops. Or, autoShs, as the sign says.

Not that I’ve decided about anything. I’m just sayin’.

The live music starts a few minutes after our food arrives, and as much as I hate to admit it, Georgia and Evie were right. The music is good. Almost as good as the simple, Scandinavian-inspired fish dish Adam has created.

I know little about drums, but whatever Bear is doing to them—I refuse to look—is impressive. The beat vibrates through my whole body, pounding in my chest and sending my pulse racing, tempting my eyes toward the stage.

Just as I’m about to give in and look at Bear, my phone buzzes with a notification that I’ve got an email. I should ignore it and listen to the band. Pretend it’s not the email I’ve been expecting all week and wait until I’m back at Georgia’s to open it when I’m alone in the guest room. But I’m too nervous, so I excuse myself from the table and make my way to the bathroom.

After locking myself in a stall, I pull my phone from my jacket pocket and open the email from the Police Deputy Chief’s Department. I have to read it twice to make sure I understand what it’s saying. The words my brain has to digest are that I’m being put on administrative leave for thirty days while the department investigates my complaint against Captain Markham.

I knew this was a possibility, but it still hits hard. Technically, I haven’t lost my job. I’ll still get paid. I can keep my badge and my weapon. But the captain has a lot of friends in the LAPD, so even though the investigation will be conducted by someone outside our division, I have little chance of my accusations being believed.

I don’t have eye-witnesses. Markham is too careful about what he says in front of whom. Basically, this is a he said/she said kind of case. I’ve worked a lot of those, and they rarely work out inshe’sfavor.

So now I have to decide whether I should use this news as a sign—or an excuse—to turn in my badge or wait and see how the investigation shakes out. Moving forward with the investigation means charging into a losing battle in order to feel as if I’m not a quitter. Both choices suck.

A heavy drumbeat makes its way from the stage to the bathroom, shaking the walls with the steady beat ofWe Will Rock You.

When I played high school basketball, this song got me pumped and ready to go. But right now? Sitting on a toilet, knowing my career is spiraling down the drain in front of my eyes? It’s the perfect background music for my defeat. Instead of Adam, Captain Markham could be singing the words himself.

To make matters worse, when I walk out of the bathroom, I have a direct line of sight to the band’s drummer. I’m not only losing the will to fight Markham but also the will to not look at Bear.

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