Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) by Katherine Stark Read Free Book Online Page A

we’re going out to dinner when the Eagles are back in town—”
    “Whoa. Wait. So this is like an actual thing you two have?” Monique asks.
    Beth makes a show of swooning and falling backward on the couch. “Candlelit dinners . . . jaunting off on a chartered jet to Ibiza . . . Hot, hot sex in an Aspen ski chalet atop a bearskin rug . . .”
    I force my brightest smile to my face. “Well, we’ll see where it goes.”
    Unfortunately, I have a feeling it’s going to go exactly where the FBI wants it to.
     
     
     
    The Washington Eagles have a rough time on their road games. Our goalie, Brian Osbourne, gets hurt during the second period of the Winnipeg game, and we have to sub in some kid fresh from the farm league. The Winnipeg team is stuck to Sergei the whole time, and he can’t get a single play off. The game ends three to one for Winnipeg—at least our Center, Marcus Wright, manages to score in the third period.
    Then it gets really interesting. While the teams are lining up to congratulate each other, one of the Winnipeg guys calls Marcus Wright the n-word. Sergei overhears it and punches him square in the jaw, right there on the ice. The league slaps him with a fine, but he gets a standing ovation from most of the arena (save for a few people in the crowd who are hardcore Winnipeg fans and, presumably, racists). The morning sports shows play the clip of the punch on endless loop, providing a really entertaining soundtrack to my morning workout as I kick and punch the shit out of some sandbags.
    The Buffalo game goes a bit better. Sergei, Wright, and one of the defensemen all score, but Buffalo answers each one, and regular play ends in a tie. We end up losing the game in sudden death overtime. So the Eagles are 1-1-1 for the season—one win, one loss, one tie. Not the worst start to a season, but we’re really going to have to shape up in time for the Thanksgiving Classic. Especially since we’re hosting this year.
     
     
     
    “I don’t care what you say, Frederica, I am not wearing a wire.”
    It’s Wednesday morning at FBI headquarters, the day of my dinner date with Sergei Drakonov. Frederica and Chief Ha have been trying to coach me on how to persuade Sergei to open up about his brother, but their methods are a bit more . . . direct than I’m willing to use, to say the least. Like I’m really going to start out a date by grilling him about his brother. Only if I want to come off as a total creep.
    Frederica clenches the battery pack for the wire device in a death grip. “We have to have some way to record your conversation.”
    “I’ll write up a detailed report afterward, okay? You know I can write up a report.” I’d done a fantastic job on that psychological profile of Sergei, but did Frederica say a single word about that? Of course not.
    “A report isn’t good enough. We need something verified.” Frederica purses her lips. “That way, no one can call your—ahem, your veracity into question.”
    I glance toward Chief Ha, but his expression is the same. Protocol uber alles .
    “Okay. What if I recorded with my phone, instead? Like a voice memo app or something. Anything has to be more discreet than wearing a wire.” Especially if— ahem, Frederica—I might not be fully dressed for the entire evening.
    Frederica and the chief exchange looks for a moment, then Chief Ha nods. “Fine. We can use that, under one condition. You have to set it to upload the data directly to our servers. No tampering.”
    “Deal,” I say, and hand over my phone.
     
     
     
    The restaurant Pluribus has been open for two months and already has a six-month waiting list, but I guess none of that matters when you’re the hot new athlete in town. I totter toward the gorgeous old mansion near the White House. Even in my hottest dress—sleek black velvet with a low cowl neck in the back—I feel woefully inadequate next to the plasticized congressional wives and flawless, polished young lawyers. I tug