Instead of the 4001 douchenozzle, I’m faced with this train wreck of a woman. Granted, as bad as she looks, she’s still hot, but she’s making all kinds of noise trying to get into my teammate’s penthouse. The one he hasn’t been staying in because he bought a house or something. With his wife and kid.

My conversations with Rook Bowman have been short and not entirely pleasant. I’m not his biggest fan. Almost every time we’ve played against each other in past seasons, one of us has ended up with some kind of penalty or other for being chippy. But my loathing for him hit an all-time high when he waived his no-trade clause and joined the Seattle expansion team at the last minute. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but they also gave him the team-captain position that was supposed to be mine. His stupid fucking friendly “You can do it; we’re a team!” attitude, and being in the coach’s goddamn back pocket, only make me hate him more. I see through his do-gooder act. He also suggested that I be moved to defense, likely so I wouldn’t be competition for his coveted first-line center position. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

And now it looks like he’s got some sidepiece using the team-issued penthouse. What an asshole.

The woman sneers, her spine straightening. “I’ve had it up to here with dickbags.” She motions to the top of her head. She’s on the short side, so it’s not very high. “Thanks for being so helpful and understanding with your insults and your assholery. That was exactly what I needed after this turdheap of a day, so really, much appreciation for your creative shit-slinging.”

“I’m just telling it like it is. Not my fault if the truth hurts.”

“Jesus, you really are an asshole, aren’t you? Too bad your personality is in direct opposition to your exterior.” She rakes her gaze over me on a huff. She almost seems irritated with herself for checking me out. As should I, if she’s riding my married teammate in his spare time. “And why the hell are you out here in your goddamn underwear? Who even does that?”

Man, she’s fired up, which would be semientertaining, except it’s seriously late and I’m pissed off from having been woken up. I don’t bother answering the underwear question, since it has no relevance to this conversation. “If anyone’s being an asshole, it’s you with all the noise.”

She looks at her phone again while scrolling through messages. This time she scans the card and punches in a code. My annoyance spikes when she gets the green light. I guess Rook really does have a sidepiece, which proves he’s not as perfect as he portrays himself to be.

The woman shoulders open the door and awkwardly drags her beat-up suitcase inside. “Thanks so much for your help. It’s nice to be welcomed so warmly to the building.” She shoots me the bird and disappears inside the penthouse.

For half a second I consider whether I should call someone, like our coach or maybe the GM, but I’m not sure there’s a point. Rook is all buddy-buddy with our coach, Alex Waters, since they played together in Chicago for a number of years. And Waters is tight with the general manager. Besides, Rook’s extracurriculars aren’t my problem. If he’s cheating on his wife, I sure as hell don’t want to be in the middle of it.

I turn off the TV—which I’d fallen asleep in front of—and hit my bed. I expect to fall asleep right away, since I’m bagged, but I find myself wondering what the hell is going on across the hall for a lot longer than is reasonable.

The next morning I wake up late thanks to last night’s hallway disturbance. I set a pot of coffee to brew before I grab the paper from the hallway. I don’t read books, because they require a time commitment and I can’t stay seated or focused long enough to finish one, but the newspaper is different. I can get all the basics from the sports section and scan the current events to keep up with what’s going on in the world while I eat breakfast.

My semidecent mood sours as I open my door to retrieve my morning paper and glance across the hall. Now that I’m not being woken up from a dead sleep, I can admit that I was a jerk, although I believe I had a reason to be. Especially if Rook is keeping a pretty pet in his team-issued penthouse.

I’m about to go back inside when I notice my neighbor’s door is ajar. My first inclination is to ignore it, since it really isn’t my problem . . . but then I entertain several possible reasons as to why the door is open:

The hot train wreck from last night got lucky with the code and ransacked the place.

Rook stopped by to make use of his sidepiece.

Rook’s wife somehow found out about his lover and decided to murder them both in the middle of the night.

If it’s option A, then someone in security is about to be out of a job. But if it happens to be option B, and I catch Rook in the act, I could use it to my advantage. If it’s option C and there are dead bodies in the penthouse, the hallway will eventually start to stink.

I slip the paper between the jamb and the door of my apartment to prevent it from closing all the way and pad across the hall. While I’ve seen a fair amount of blood thanks to on-ice accidents, dead bodies are a whole different story and something I’d rather not be subjected to. But in this case, a fresh body is better than one that’s been hanging around for a few days, so really I’m doing my civic duty.

I knock on the door, and it creaks open several inches. I wait a full fifteen seconds before knocking a second time. When no one answers after another half minute, I peek inside and take a look around. No pool of congealed blood stains the floor. No obvious body lying anywhere. So I don’t have to call 911 yet.