Page 97 of Wrong Pucking Player

“Damn.” I hold a sense of pity for her. “So, the blonde is the bleach used to make you brunette? You could have just worn a wig, you know.”

“I wore a wig once to observe a surgical nurse, and the hair cover got caught on my badge and tugged it right off my head right before we went inside,” she reveals. “Utterly embarrassing. I’ll never go through that again.”

“Hmmm.” I stare at her for a long moment. “We’d actually get along if you didn’t have to act like a fake bitch.”

My honesty makes her laugh before she puts her pen down to give me her full attention.

“Trust me. I hate this job because I’m twenty-two, working with the government to take on some crazy goons hiding within the realms of rich sports franchises and organizations, when I could be clubbing every weekend, fucking every hot player that waltzes into this small town, and be living a far more social life than my non-existent one,” she summarizes. “Worse part really is knowing every city or town you’re assigned to will end up hating you once you complete your mission.”

When she says it like that, I can’t help but feel a sense of pity for her. I don’t know the full extent of her position and why she decided to do such a role that would lead her down a path of social isolation, but then again, there had to be some sort of reward for doing something like this.

Right?

“Did you decide to join this profession on purpose?” I can’t help but ask. “It sounds dreadful.”

“It has its benefits,” she admits. “Pay is good, which is how I fast-tracked getting my bachelor’s degree while juggling to get my high school diploma. Always ensures I have a place to live, even if it means staying in a hotel and eating their daily free breakfast and drinking cheap ass coffee. Get to meet celebrities and go to fancy dinners and galas like I’m someone’s rich daughter, and when all the chaos is over, and arrests are made, I get to continue contributing to making small towns like these a safer place from self-centered rapist men who want nothing but money and pleasure.”

“Isn’t that the least bit scary?” To be that brave to do all of this on her own with no backup is frightening to me.

No way could I accomplish that.

The way she looks at me isn’t out of judgment or spite. It’s as though she’s looking past me.

“You know what’s scarier?” she begins, looking as if she’s no longer viewing me in the present but looking at her own past. “Falling in love with an idol, only for them to be the devil behind closed doors. Being the typical know-it-all sixteen-year-old who thinks dating an older man is hot, only to be used as a pawn in his game and tossed when you’re no longer of service. Scary is watching that man peel away everyone you care about, but not by ruining your reputation or emphasizing how much of a bitch you are. Nope. Instead, he takes them out of this world in hopes you carry the guilt of it all.”

I’m speechless because I didn’t expect the conversation to go down that route.

Did I know this world was cruel as fuck? Yes.

I’ve witnessed it firsthand. Officials give people plenty of drugs and other substances in hopes they overdose, and they can blame mental health on it all.

When you live in what this town calls the “slumps,” you get to see the other side of the world that doesn’t cater to the poor. Witness and experience being thrown under the rug by the world that emphasizes how important your life is to them.

That your existence matters.

“Despite it all, that same man just recently walked the graduation stage and is now pursuing his dream of being a professional hockey player. Wild.”

“He’s not on our team or the Strattonville Vipers, right?”

“Thankfully, no.” She confesses. “But I’m sure he’s going to face either team sooner or later.”

“So, is that why you’ve taken on this assignment?”

“Along those lines,” she admits. “This is a real big takedown, Andrews. Winchester is simply the first domino piece of it all. The moment we knock him down, everything will begin to crumble. If that takes him out in the process, so be it.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I’ll take matters into my own hands.” She shrugs. “Though, it’s getting more and more obvious that burning bridges is his hobby, and a lot of people want him dead.”

“So, I guess the actual police are either being bribed to ignore his existence or are supporting him entirely.”

“That’s one of the most intriguing things about all of this,” she admits with a wide grin. “They always say the good cops don’t last because the bad ones do everything in their power to fuck up their drive for justice, so they throw away the towel. I definitely believe that now.”

“What can you do to preserve the good ones?”

“Just fight fire with fire,” Caren says far too casually. “Only in this game of cat and mouse, you got to play it smart. That’s why we’re combining forces. Sort of.”

“Define ‘we,’” I encourage. “And why does this have to deal with Armani?”

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