“Coach, sorry to interrupt. Do you know where the uniforms are?”
Coach Ace raised dark brows, while Coach Cartwright turned in a circle, as if they were going to magically appear within arm’s reach.
“Cook was in charge of those. Or maybe Ms. Robilard. Check with one of them.” Dismissing him, the coaches went back to their discussion.
Okay then. He looked around the gym, spotted Reagan standing beside the site manager—the event staff had been introduced to the teams on day one. He walked over. “Reagan, hey, sorry to bother you.”
“No problem. Al, we’ll talk later?” She took Graham’s arm and walked a few feet away. “What’s up?”
“Looking for our uniforms. They’re not in the locker room like they were yesterday. We were told to leave them in the hampers and they’d be laundered and ready for today.”
“Yes, I gave them to Marianne’s intern. He might have left them in the training room. Let’s go check.” She hooked an elbow with his, partly for stability, he knew, because of the sky high heels she insisted on wearing, and partly because she was just a friendly person. “You’re doing well so far. How are things?”
“Things are good.” He waited for her to ask about the engagement, but she didn’t. So Kara hadn’t shared the news yet. He’d let her do so when she was ready. They entered the training room together, finding a harried Marianne taping Simpson’s ankle and looking around with wild eyes.
“You,” she said, pointing a finger at Reagan. “You have to help me. I’m alone, and I ran out of gauze. I’m using what they have,” she added, waving a hand at the Army and Air Force trainers, “but I like my stuff better. I sent Kara for the extra box in the storage room, and she hasn’t come back. Either she forgot, or she couldn’t find it, or someone abducted her and took her to the Bahamas where she will live forever and ever.”
“Since I’m the guy who would be abducting her and taking her to the Bahamas, that’s off the table,” he joked.
Reagan smiled soothingly. “I’ll check.”
“No, I’ll check,” Graham said. “If the uniforms are there, I’ll take them back to the locker room with me.”
“They’re not in here,” Marianne said, finishing up the tape and slapping a hand on Simpson’s back. “Off you go, big boy. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Cook.” He slid his feet back into his untied running shoes and headed out.
“I’ll check here for the uniforms,” Reagan said, “and you look in the storage room with Kara.”
“She’s got my key, so if she’s not in there and the door is locked, search the stands or call her cell,” Marianne added. “But I don’t have the uniforms.”
“I’ll check,” Reagan said again, pushing Graham out of the door. “She’s stressed,” she whispered. “Her intern turned into a huge flop down here. Let’s not put more on her plate than necessary.”
“Got it.” He turned and jogged across the gym to where the storage rooms were. He’d helped Brad carry in Marianne’s supplies the first day when she’d been setting up shop and knew which one it was.
But as he neared the storage room—door closed—he noticed a thin tendril of smoke coming from the door. Not wanting to panic anyone if it was as simple as someone smoking in there—though the odds were low—he tried the door handle. Locked. He looked around for someone and grabbed the nearest person who looked like they worked there. “Do you have a master key?”
They stared at him, bewildered. “No, that would be Al.”
“Get Al over here. Now!” he barked when the employee just stared at him. He pointed at the door, and the man hurried to call on the walkie talkie for Al to come over ASAP.
He felt the door handle more closely now—warm, but not hot—and listened. Then he heard it. Something rustled inside. Someone was in there. “Hey.” He banged on the door. “Hey! Open up!”
He heard more scrambling, scurrying, and another noise that could have been the shriek of metal across a floor. Or a woman crying. It was impossible to tell. He tried the handle again, but it hadn’t magically unlocked. “Where the fuck is Al?” he yelled, then tried to shoulder the door open. But there was no busting it down. The door was thick, and designed to open out, which meant it would be impossible to break in without a battering ram.
Al, the paunchy middle-aged site supervisor, hustled over, breathing like he’d run a marathon instead of just across the gym floor. “Let’s not panic,” he started to suggest, but Graham shoved him at the door.
“Open it. Open it now, God damn it. Someone’s in there.” And he had the worst feeling possible it might be Kara.
CHAPTER
24