Page 3 of Slap Shot
Kane laughed. "You sound like a fucking fortune cookie."
"Fortune cookie is wise. Many truths wrapped in tasty package."
As the laughter resumed and teammates began filtering out toward the parking garage, Oliver found himself thinking about smart women and dangerous possibilities.
.***
The next morning, Oliver pushed through Grind Coffee's glass doors. Charlie's steady presence at his left side helped keep his heart rate somewhere near normal. The place was busierthan usual, morning commuters grabbing their caffeine fixes before diving into Tuesday routines that didn't involve trying to hide a criminal past from cybersecurity experts.
He scanned the room, expecting to find some middle-aged IT professional hunched over a laptop, thick glasses, sensible cardigan, the kind of person who'd send cryptic texts that sounded like clandestine spy meetings. Instead, his eyes landed on a woman in the corner who looked like she'd just stepped out of a Nike commercial. She was pretty and Oliver wondered if she’d like to go out to lunch with him when his meeting with Quincy was over.
The pretty woman had claimed a corner table with clear sightlines to both entrances, tactical positioning that made Oliver's old instincts prickle. She had an athletic build, broad shoulders and legs that went on for days beneath dark jeans. Unruly dark curls barely contained by what looked like a scrunchie that had seen better days. She scowled at her laptop screen. He noticed there was a Charm City Chill sticker on the back cover.
This couldn't be Dr. Quincy. This had to be some graduate student or assistant who'd been sent in her place.
Charlie's posture shifted, not alarm, but the heightened attention he reserved for interesting people. The dog had excellent taste, Oliver had to admit.
He approached cautiously. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Dr. Quincy? I'm supposed to meet her here."
The woman looked up, and Oliver's brain short-circuited. Sharp green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that somehow made her look even more attractive instead of hiding anything. High cheekbones, full mouth currently curved in what might have been amusement at his obvious confusion.
"You found her." She closed the laptop with a decisive snap. "Hi Chenny. Thanks for coming."
Oliver slid into the chair across from her, trying to process the disconnect between his expectations and reality. Dr. Heather Quincy was not only young, maybe early thirties, but she was also the kind of beautiful that made him forget his own name. There was something familiar about the set of her shoulders, the way she held her head. Hockey posture, developed over years of keeping your head up to avoid getting your bell rung.
"You're not what I expected," he said, then immediately regretted it.
Her eyebrow arched. "What exactly were you expecting?"
Uh oh. "Someone more corporate, I guess. Less..." He gestured vaguely at all of her.
"Less what, exactly?" Her tone had sharpened, and Oliver realized he was digging himself into a hole.
"Forget I said anything." He cleared his throat, trying to regain his footing. "You said we needed to talk. I'm guessing this isn't about my faceoff percentage."
"No, though that backhand winner against Montreal in April was textbook. Goalie never saw it coming."
Now it was his turn to be caught off guard. "You follow hockey?"
"I played Division I at Minnesota. Made it to the Frozen Four twice before I blew out my knee." She shrugged like it was ancient history, but Oliver caught the flash of old pain in her eyes. "Turns out cybersecurity has better job security than professional women's hockey."
"Minnesota." Oliver's eyes lingered on the athletic lines of her frame, the way she carried herself like she could still drop gloves if necessary. "That explains a lot."
"Does it?" Her smile turned sharp, like she'd caught him looking and didn't mind at all. She leaned back, studying him with an intensity that distracted him with the flash of lust that spiked through him. "I follow a lot of things thesedays. Including digital footprints that most people think they've erased completely."
The ambient noise of the coffee shop seemed to fade. Oliver's chest tightened, anxiety trying to surface. Charlie leaned on his leg, offering his support.
"Not sure what you're getting at," Oliver said, proud of how level his voice sounded.
"GhostWire47."
The words hit him like a blindside check. Oliver's vision narrowed, every muscle going rigid. Nobody had used that handle in years. He'd buried it so deep it might as well have been in witness protection.
"Never heard of it." The lie scraped his throat raw.
Heather pulled out her phone, swiped to a screenshot that made his blood freeze. Lines of code filled the screen, elegant, complex, with a signature he recognized like his own reflection. His work. Old work, from when he'd been desperate enough to think consequences were for other people.
"First National Bank breach, three years ago. Whoever did this left a very distinctive calling card. Same patterns, same style, same “ghost protocol” that a certain computer science student used to upgrade his meal plan."
