1
Connell
Stifling, oppressive heat smacked me in the face as I stepped out of the Jag in front of the Sweet Water courthouse. Not that the tiny building just off Main street was much to boast about, but whatever happened here today determined if I got to go home to Scotland next week. Charleston, and the little town of Sweet Water—where myself and the rest of my NHL team made our homes—was lovely most of the year, but I’d rather be in the highlands than sweating my balls off during the off-season.
“Just let me do the talking,” Gregory Chastain, my overpriced, pretentious prick of a lawyer instructed as he fell into step next to me.
“Considering that’s what I pay ye for, I figured I’d sit back and watch it play out,” I told him as we walked through the door. Thank you, sweet mother of Christ, the air conditioning was in perfect working order.
“Right, and that’s what you said last time in Miami, remember?” He cocked an eyebrow and straightened his tie.
“The other lawyer was being a daft—”
“Connell!” Langley, the head of public relations for the Carolina Reapers, came down the small hallway, clicking her heels on the stone floor. Her black hair was tied up in a professional-looking twist, which told me this wasn’t a social call. “Glad you boys made it on time.”
“I was just telling Connell to keep his commentary to a minimum,” Gregory drawled.
“On that point, we agree.” Langley’s lips flattened.
“What’s got ye frazzled?” I asked. If Langley was worried, there had to be a reason. The woman was cool and calm even when shit hit the fan. Considering she was married to my Captain, Axel Nyström, she knew how to handle her fair share of Reaper drama.
“Oh, nothing, as long as we can get into there a few minutes early. The Judge is ready, so if you guys are, we can move this right along.” She nodded and motioned toward the double doors that separated the sparse waiting area from the courtroom.
“I’m fine with that,” Gregory agreed.
“Let’s get this over with.” I adjusted the wrists of my sleeves under my jacket. Going to court meant breaking out the big guns, also known as my gray Armani suit.
We entered the court—wait, was this really a courtroom? There were folding chairs set up in rows, then two tables each with two chairs, and a larger table on what looked to be a small stage.
“It doubles as the community center,” Langley explained in hushed tones as an older woman carrying a laptop entered the room from the door toward the back—on the side of the stage. “They only hear cases in here once a week.”
“Between Bingo and dodgeball?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t. Not today. No jokes. No humor. No excuses. Yes, sir. No, sir. You get the point.”
This time my eyes were the ones rolling. “Aye, Langley. I understand.”
Gregory and I took our seats at the right-hand table, and Langley took one of the folding chairs behind us as an officer walked in the same door the woman had used.
They talked for a moment as she set up her laptop, and I tried not to twiddle my thumbs. Had I been an idiot? Sure, but this wasn’t anything a ten thousand dollar check and an apology couldn’t fix.
“Carson, it’s good to see you,” the woman said with a soft smile as a middle-aged man in a suit took the table opposite ours.
“The city attorney,” Gregory whispered. “He’s really just after restitution. Don’t worry.”
“All rise, the honorable Judge Neil Hurston presiding,” the officer said in a deep, drawling voice.
We stood, and the chairs made a God-awful shriek against the gym floor.
The Judge walked out onto the stage like he was here for a Saturday matinee. His glasses slipped down his nose, but he pushed them back up as he took his seat at the table.
He banged his gavel. Why? Like there were dozens of people here to bring to order? “And we’re in session. Why don’t you all sit down?”
We sat. Some people thought my Scottish accent was thick—probably because it was, but I had nothing on a few of these Southerners around here, this Judge included.
“Carson, what do you have for me today?” Judge Hurston asked.
The other lawyer walked up to the stage and handed the officer—apparently the bailiff—a packet of papers, which he forwarded to the Judge.
“Your honor, we’re here in the matter of the Town of Sweet Water versus Connell MacDhuibh—”
“MacDhuibh,” I corrected his pronunciation. There was no need to butcher my name while we were at this.
Every gaze swung my way.
“MacDhuibh,” I said again, slowly. “You doona really say the ‘h.’”
Gregory’s sigh could have blown away the table cloth if we’d had one.
“Right,” Carson said slowly. “MacDhuibh.”
“That’s better,” I said with a nod.
The Judge looked over his glasses at me, but there was a slight smile as he shook his head. “Go ahead, Carson.”