Prologue
Tijjani
The shrill sound of the final buzzer pierces through the air, marking the end of a physically demanding match. The crowd’s cheers blend into a distant buzz as I glide off the ice.
People had dismissed our chances of winning, stacking the odds against us. We entered the playoffs as the underdogs with no one believing in us except ourselves, but that had only made our will to prove them wrong stronger. We trained relentlessly, pushing ourselves at every practice, thinking and rethinking our way of playing until we knew it would pay off.
And it fucking did.
As we raise the famous cup above our heads, we feel the weight of all our hard work being lifted off our shoulders. The Puck Kings’ last final win was four decades ago, and the energy in the air highlights its importance to us all. The locker room is alive with a palpable sense of joy as we celebrate.
“First round’s on me!” I shout as we hit the showers.
Spirits remain high even in the showers, with everyone enthusiastically sharing their favourite game moment.
Now fully clothed and ready to leave, we exit the locker room and make our way to the team bus. There’s no chance of anyone driving tonight, considering what’s coming. We are going to party in true Puck Kings fashion because tonight is one for the records.
Our management team had already scheduled an after party at the newly opened club downtown. They figured we would want to be together either way, but of course, we all hoped it would be to celebrate a historical victory.
The ride to the club is short, but the streets are full of people wearing Puck King’s jerseys. The second they spot the bus, fans go wild showing their signs, praising the team and waving flags with our logo. Winning at home, in our town, was a sweet, sweet bonus I had not dared to imagine. But here we are.
The sight of never-ending lines and the loud thumping of the bass audible even from outside greets us when we step out of the bus. As we enter, our security team maintains a watchful presence in front and behind us. Given the unpredictable nature of fans, there is no guarantee that we won’t require protection. We walk towards the VIP area, the music from the DJ booth and the loud noise of the patrons becoming less deafening with each step we take.
The VIP room gives us an amazing view of the club, and the ambience is still festive, although we are bit sheltered from the wild crowd. As we settle into our seats, I signal the server and place our drink order, opening a tab at the same time. I am a man of my word.
Tonight, I’m here for fun and to relieve the season’s stress. I love my teammates to death, but I much prefer being on my own. We’ve spent an entire season together. When the server returns with our drinks, I down a shot quickly before abandoning them and joining the crowd downstairs. I make my way straight to the bar and order another drink.
Drink in hand, I move to the dance floor, feeling the energy and excitement around me. I spot a woman; her dress catching my eye. I turn on my charm and invite her to come closer.
She accepts the invitation and we sway to the music, losing ourselves in the moment. Song after song, drink after drink, I feel the pressure from this season slowly fade away. The woman is an excellent dancer and her flirty looks help melt the last bits of tension straight from my mind. She accompanies me to the bar and I am happy to pay for her drinks and mine, putting them all on my tab.
With the song’s final notes gone, the club’s energy winds down. Not in the mood to party anymore, I head towards the bar to settle my tab before returning to the bus. Without bothering to inquire about the total, I hand the bartender my card.
“Apologies, sir, but there appears to be an error,” he says, giving me back my card.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry. Is there another form of payment you want to use today?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you should get in touch with your credit card company to investigate and resolve the issue,” he whispers softly, ensuring that only I can hear.
I hand him another card, but it declines as well. I decide to leave my watch at the bar and promise to return with the money. Normally, I store an emergency stash in my gym bag. Hopefully, I didn’t forget to leave it there. I quickly head outside and send a silent prayer when I find the bus empty and my money still in my gym bag. I pay my tab, take back my watch and return to the bus, finding some of my teammates also ready to leave.
A gnawing feeling of unease settles in the pit of my stomach as we finally ride back to the hotel. Everyone is still happily cheering, drunkenly hugging each other, while I only hear the bartender’s words playing in a loop in my mind. Declined. Declined. What did they mean declined? It’s just impossible. I cannot bring myself to look at my phone right now, afraid a teammate will catch a glimpse of something.
I am finally alone in my hotel room, and I immediately start looking through my accounts on my phone. I don’t know what I was expecting, a miracle of some sorts probably, but to my utter horror, the numbers are off. More than off, the funds from my endorsements, my salary… everything is gone.
Gone.
Examining the transactions more closely, I notice sizable withdrawals that make no sense to me. I admit I might not be the most responsible person with money, but in my defence, it had never been a problem since I started my career. These amounts, however? I would sure as fuck remember authorising this much, going out of my pockets.
Beyond frustrated and not caring about the late hour, I dial the number of my financial advisor, but stop at the last minute. What if he is involved in this? Instead, I decide to call in a favour from a forensic accountant I know. Throughout my career, I never imagined being in this predicament, yet here I am.
Whoever did this, I am determined to pursue legal action and recover every penny they have stolen from me. I hate this feeling. My circle used to be trustworthy, but now I question the loyalty of everyone, even that of my closest friends.
As I sit on the edge of the bed, I can’t help but notice the muted sounds of the city outside and I remember the wish I made earlier. Block out the world and relieve stress. I laugh a humourless laugh. Fucking wish that was possible. Currently, I feel more stressed than ever before. I take deep breaths after deep breaths, unable to calm the turmoil inside of me.
Afraid that this will get out, I clutch my phone closer to my chest, as if the walls had ears and they would betray me.
The sudden sound of my ringtone startles me and I pick up as quickly as I can, my heart racing. I hesitate to speak up, aware that the revelation could be life-altering. These words will either reassure me or tear me down completely.
“Hello, Tijjani speaking,” I finally manage to say.
I can hear the frantic thumping of my heart in my ears and I wonder if the sound can travel through the phone.
“Hi Mr Kyautu, it’s David. Sorry for the wait, I wanted to double-check before getting back to you. I’ve emailed you the statements and bank reports, but I’m afraid you need to come in as soon as possible.” wrong stronger. We trained relentlessly, pushing ourselves at every practice, thinking and rethinking our way of playing until we knew it would pay off.
And it fucking did.
As we raise the famous cup above our heads, we feel the weight of all our hard work being lifted off our shoulders. The Puck Kings’ last final win was four decades ago, and the energy in the air highlights its importance to us all. The locker room is alive with a palpable sense of joy as we celebrate.
“First round’s on me!” I shout as we hit the showers.
Spirits remain high even in the showers, with everyone enthusiastically sharing their favourite game moment.
Now fully clothed and ready to leave, we exit the locker room and make our way to the team bus. There’s no chance of anyone driving tonight, considering what’s coming. We are going to party in true Puck Kings fashion because tonight is one for the records.
Our management team had already scheduled an after party at the newly opened club downtown. They figured we would want to be together either way, but of course, we all hoped it would be to celebrate a historical victory.
The ride to the club is short, but the streets are full of people wearing Puck King’s jerseys. The second they spot the bus, fans go wild showing their signs, praising the team and waving flags with our logo. Winning at home, in our town, was a sweet, sweet bonus I had not dared to imagine. But here we are.
The sight of never-ending lines and the loud thumping of the bass audible even from outside greets us when we step out of the bus. As we enter, our security team maintains a watchful presence in front and behind us. Given the unpredictable nature of fans, there is no guarantee that we won’t require protection. We walk towards the VIP area, the music from the DJ booth and the loud noise of the patrons becoming less deafening with each step we take.
The VIP room gives us an amazing view of the club, and the ambience is still festive, although we are bit sheltered from the wild crowd. As we settle into our seats, I signal the server and place our drink order, opening a tab at the same time. I am a man of my word.
Tonight, I’m here for fun and to relieve the season’s stress. I love my teammates to death, but I much prefer being on my own. We’ve spent an entire season together. When the server returns with our drinks, I down a shot quickly before abandoning them and joining the crowd downstairs. I make my way straight to the bar and order another drink.
Drink in hand, I move to the dance floor, feeling the energy and excitement around me. I spot a woman; her dress catching my eye. I turn on my charm and invite her to come closer.
She accepts the invitation and we sway to the music, losing ourselves in the moment. Song after song, drink after drink, I feel the pressure from this season slowly fade away. The woman is an excellent dancer and her flirty looks help melt the last bits of tension straight from my mind. She accompanies me to the bar and I am happy to pay for her drinks and mine, putting them all on my tab.
With the song’s final notes gone, the club’s energy winds down. Not in the mood to party anymore, I head towards the bar to settle my tab before returning to the bus. Without bothering to inquire about the total, I hand the bartender my card.
“Apologies, sir, but there appears to be an error,” he says, giving me back my card.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry. Is there another form of payment you want to use today?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you should get in touch with your credit card company to investigate and resolve the issue,” he whispers softly, ensuring that only I can hear.
I hand him another card, but it declines as well. I decide to leave my watch at the bar and promise to return with the money. Normally, I store an emergency stash in my gym bag. Hopefully, I didn’t forget to leave it there. I quickly head outside and send a silent prayer when I find the bus empty and my money still in my gym bag. I pay my tab, take back my watch and return to the bus, finding some of my teammates also ready to leave.
A gnawing feeling of unease settles in the pit of my stomach as we finally ride back to the hotel. Everyone is still happily cheering, drunkenly hugging each other, while I only hear the bartender’s words playing in a loop in my mind. Declined. Declined. What did they mean declined? It’s just impossible. I cannot bring myself to look at my phone right now, afraid a teammate will catch a glimpse of something.
I am finally alone in my hotel room, and I immediately start looking through my accounts on my phone. I don’t know what I was expecting, a miracle of some sorts probably, but to my utter horror, the numbers are off. More than off, the funds from my endorsements, my salary… everything is gone.
Gone.
Examining the transactions more closely, I notice sizable withdrawals that make no sense to me. I admit I might not be the most responsible person with money, but in my defence, it had never been a problem since I started my career. These amounts, however? I would sure as fuck remember authorising this much, going out of my pockets.
Beyond frustrated and not caring about the late hour, I dial the number of my financial advisor, but stop at the last minute. What if he is involved in this? Instead, I decide to call in a favour from a forensic accountant I know. Throughout my career, I never imagined being in this predicament, yet here I am.
Whoever did this, I am determined to pursue legal action and recover every penny they have stolen from me. I hate this feeling. My circle used to be trustworthy, but now I question the loyalty of everyone, even that of my closest friends.
As I sit on the edge of the bed, I can’t help but notice the muted sounds of the city outside and I remember the wish I made earlier. Block out the world and relieve stress. I laugh a humourless laugh. Fucking wish that was possible. Currently, I feel more stressed than ever before. I take deep breaths after deep breaths, unable to calm the turmoil inside of me.
Afraid that this will get out, I clutch my phone closer to my chest, as if the walls had ears and they would betray me.
The sudden sound of my ringtone startles me and I pick up as quickly as I can, my heart racing. I hesitate to speak up, aware that the revelation could be life-altering. These words will either reassure me or tear me down completely.
“Hello, Tijjani speaking,” I finally manage to say.
I can hear the frantic thumping of my heart in my ears and I wonder if the sound can travel through the phone.
“Hi Mr Kyautu, it’s David. Sorry for the wait, I wanted to double-check before getting back to you. I’ve emailed you the statements and bank reports, but I’m afraid you need to come in as soon as possible.”
