Page 42 of Enticing the Enforcer
“Exactly.” His chair creaks underneath him. “This year few young men are in a position to transfer from a junior college program into something bigger, and I’ve offered them a spot on the team next year.”
Reese’s brows go up. “Okay, sure, anyone we know?”
“Probably not.” Coach leans back in his chair, like he’s bracing himself. “These boys come from a specific high-risk community.” He finally decides to stop beating around the bush. “They were part of the Serendee community before it was shut down.”
Reese blinks. “You mean the cult?”
Bryant’s mouth tightens. “I’d rather not use that word. But yes.”
Cult isexactlythe right word. Everyone in Wittmore knows about Serendee–at least the surface version. Started by a Wittmore environmental science major twenty years back. They called it a “sustainable utopia.” Living off the land. Growing their own food and butchering their own meat. Sewing their own clothes. Blah blah blah.
But underneath? Whole different story. Tim Wray, the founder, was a fucking creep. He had them all hooked into this breeding program-slash-free labor ring. Guns. Drugs. Sex trafficking. The whole thing was unbelievable. His own kid blew the whistle a few years ago. After that, the Feds raided the compound.
It was pretty much shut down by the time I got here, but the legend was still being passed down, not to mention the documentaries Twyler forced us to watch. The members dressed in plain, old-timey clothes, with blank stares. The womencovered up head to toe. You’d catch them walking down Main Street, going in and out of their “recruitment office.”
“So you think they’re ready for D1?” I ask because none of that adds up to ice rinks and slap shots.
He nods. “These boys are good. Really good. Good enough to carry on the legacy you built.”
I exchange a look with Reese and ask, “Why bring us in? We’re not even gonna be here next year.”
“I know that, dumb ass,” Bryant snaps, though there’s a twitch of a smile under the gruffness. “I need a few guys with nothing on the line to take some time with them on the ice, maybe show them around campus and help them get comfortable. Welcome them in. Ease them through it. I’ll have a few of the rising seniors there, too.”
Reese adjusts the brim of his hat. “Sure, Coach. We’d be happy to.”
Coach’s eyes soften. “They’ve been through a lot. But you two know as well as anyone–hockey can be a great unifier.”
Reese nods. I do too, though my mind is stuck on those old images of blank-eyed kids in hand-stitched clothes. A new batch of teammates, coming from that? It’s weird. Unexpected. But maybe Coach is right. Maybe hockey really can fix anything.
The package is deliveredby courier the next evening. He bangs on the door hard enough to rattle the hinges, and Reese is the one who answers it, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“It’s for you, J.”
The house is full–the seven of us congregated for dinner. The music Reid picked is humming low under the buzz of conversation. It feels like everyone’s trying to soak up theselast weeks before everything changes. Tonight we made dinner together, us guys and the girls, crammed elbow to elbow in the kitchen. They cooked, we cleaned, a rhythm we’ve fallen into without thinking.
Reese holds the door open as I cross the room, Axel feeling up Nadia in the middle of the room. My shirt sticks to me where I swipe my wet hands down the front of it.
“Hey, man,” I say, taking the little electronic box the courier thrusts out and scrawling my signature across the screen. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He pivots, already heading back down the steps.
“What is it?” Axel asks, releasing Nadia, as I shut the door with my foot.
“Not sure–” I start, but then my eye snags on the stamped and embossed wings in the corner of the package. A sharp jolt kicks through me. “What the fuc…”
I barely have the thing open and the badges in my hand before the room goes apocalyptic.
“She sent us passes?” Shelby blurts, wobbling like her knees just gave out. Her cheeks go pale; she looks seconds from fainting.
I nod, dumbly, as Nadia swoops in, snatching the stack of lanyards right out of my fingers with a gasp.
“What else is in there?” Twyler’s voice cuts in, pitched so high it almost cracks.
“Tickets, box seats, backstage passes–” I unfold another sheet of paper, my throat dry, and then look up at the wide-eyed faces staring back. “Directions for getting on her private plane.”
“She’s flying us down?” Reid demands, his jaw slack. “Dude, what did you do?”
I shake my head, heat crawling up the back of my neck. “Nothing. We’ve just been talking.”
