Page 50 of Dating Goals
“Don’t think so. They look…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Official.”
“Official?”
“In suits.”
Great. Men in suits never bring good news. They either want money or your signature on something legally binding.
“Tell them I’ll be right there,” I say, grabbing my towel and dabbing at the small lake of sweat I’ve created. “Just need a minute to…you know…splash some water on my face, throw on a clean shirt.
Dieter nods and disappears, leaving me to contemplate which transgression of mine has finally caught up with me. That time I accidentally took two mints from the restaurant bowl? The parking ticket I contested because the sign was in German and I swear “Parkverbot” could mean “party spot” to any reasonable English speaker?
Walking into the lobby, I spot them immediately. Two men in dark suits standing with perfect posture, scanning the room like they’re cataloging escape routes. They don’t look like fans, sponsors, or anyone who’d normally visit a hockey rink.
“Griffin McGregor?” the taller one asks, with the kind of severity that makes my last name sound like a war crime.
“That’s me,” I confirm, offering my hand and my most charming I-haven’t-done-anything-wrong smile. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“Agent Bruderlin, Federal Intelligence Service,” the tall one says, flashing a badge that indeed looks very federal and very serious. “And this is Agent Showalter.”
The shorter man nods curtly without offering his hand.
Very encouraging.
My mind launches into a greatest hits compilation of “Things Griffin Might Have Done Wrong”
1: My visa. It’s definitely my visa. Which is a ridiculous thought, because the team managers handled all that paperwork.
2: That time I accidentally wandered into a restricted area at the airport because I was looking for my lost luggage.
3: The Instagram photo where I’m posing with what I thought was a historic monument but might have been a military installation.
“Is there somewhere we could speak privately?” Bruderlin asks, his eyes sweeping the lobby as if the potted palms might be concealing hidden cameras.
“Uh, sure,” I manage, brain still cycling through worst-case scenarios. “There’s a meeting room just down the hall.”
I lead them to our team’s strategy room, which is thankfully empty. The walls are plastered with training schedules and nutritional charts, and I suddenly feel like I’m in one of those movie scenes where the protagonist is about to learn he’s been unwittingly involved in an international espionage plot.
“Please, sit down,” I offer, gesturing to the chairs around the conference table. I take a seat across from them, trying not tolook as nervous as I feel. “So…Federal Intelligence Service, huh? Is that like Immigration and Customs Enforcement? Because I’m pretty sure my work visa’s current.”
“Mr. McGregor, this isn’t about your visa,” Agent Bruderlin says with the kind of patience usually reserved for children or confused tourists.
“Oh. That’s…good?” My relief is short-lived as my brain scrambles to figure out what other trouble I could be in.
“The Federal Intelligence Service is more akin to Britain’s MI6 or America’s CIA,” Agent Showalter explains, his voice clipped and precise.
“So you’re like…spies?” The word tumbles out with embarrassing enthusiasm.
Well, this took a turn. I’m suddenly eight years old again, sitting cross-legged in front of our TV. I’ve watched every James Bond film at least three times. Okay, who am I kidding, more like ten times each. I still have annual 007 marathons, complete with themed snacks and terrible attempts at a Sean Connery accent.
Both men stare at me blankly.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Please continue.”
Bruderlin opens a thin folder and slides a photograph across the table. “Are you familiar with this man?”
I look down at a high-resolution surveillance photo of Malcolm Chase exiting what looks like a luxury hotel.
“Malcolm Chase,” I say, my stomach dropping. “Yeah, I know him. He’s the owner of the Titans.”
