Infected: Shift by Andrea Speed Read Free Book Online Page B

when he came off the bench. It helped that he was very nearly the tallest dude on the ice, and that he drew attention to himself by pasting a guy so hard to the boards that he thought the glass—Plexiglas, plastic, whatever it was that surrounded the rink—was going to shatter. Grey’s number was twenty-two, but Holden thought 666 might be more appropriate, since he tried to make that guy a pancake. Did they teach you that in hockey school? Not plastering someone, but continuing to skate and play even though the right side of your rib cage has just collapsed and your lung is deflating? That Wheat Kings guy was amazing for not passing out, although he did go to the bench and seemed to sit there for a bit before he got out on the ice again. Holden noticed the client mostly seemed to be on the ice when that guy was, and when the Falcons were on a penalty kill, or the Wheat Kings (“Bring me your rice! Hear the lamentations of your oats!”) were really trying hard to score.
     
    He ended up loitering for almost two hours behind the arena before the Falcons started to emerge. The weird thing about hockey players was they looked so big and thick in their padded uniforms, their body armor protective gear, that out of it they seemed almost ludicrously skinny. Generally fit as hell and as hard as brick walls, but wispy all the same. You wouldn’t know there was a good chance they could break your jaw with one punch until they actually did it.
     
    Finally, he saw the client coming out, talking to two other guys, all three with gear bags slung over their shoulders. “Grey Williams?” he asked, coming up. The three men stopped, but Holden only noticed one guy tense, the thinnest of the group and also the shortest, who still had wet hair. Holden hadn’t seen everybody’s faces, not with those helmets and visors and his generally lousy seats, but he didn’t recognize the little brunet guy at all.
     
    “Who wants to know?” Grey asked casually, but there was a hint of menace in the tone.
     
    “I’m Holden Krause. I work with Roan McKichan. I’m doing some follow-up, and I was wondering if I could talk to you?”
     
    Williams’s tensing had been very subtle. Holden only realized it now as his shoulders slumped slightly and the murderous look in his eye gave way to a slightly goofy grin. “Oh, sure.” He looked at his companions, the wiry little brunet and the crew-cut blond with a knife blade of a face, and said, “See you guys tomorrow, okay?”
     
    There were okay s and ye s —the brunet had a French accent —and as they left, the Frenchy was still giving him a suspicious glare, like he didn’t trust him. Once they were out of sight, Holden asked, “Was that French guy gonna hit me?”
     
    Williams laughed. “Tank? Eh, he knows I’m up to something, so he’s become protective. I protect him on the ice, so he’s decided he’s gonna protect me off. Don’t know how, but I appreciate the thought.”
     
    “Tank? I assume that’s a nickname.”
     
    “Yeah. His name’s Thibault, but we just call him Tank ’cause he kinda is one.”
     
    “I didn’t see a Thibault on the ice tonight.”
     
    “’Cause that’s his first name. His last name’s Beauvais.”
     
    Holden recalled where he'd seen that name. “Holy fuck, that guy was the goalie? I thought he was bigger than that.”
     
    Williams genuinely chuckled. “They wear like eighty pounds of gear, man. If they were bigger than that, there’d be no net to shoot at.” After a moment’s pause, Williams asked, “So what d’ya need to know?”
     
    “Can we go somewhere and talk?”
     
    “Sure. There’s a bar down the street.”
     
    And what a vaguely seedy bar it was. There was worse along the way—a strip joint and a sports bar (there were a lot of masculine addendums around the sports arena)—but this was a more traditional bar, a tiny dive with lots of dark wood and neon beer signs, and a jukebox playing a Tom Waits song, which seemed a