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“Yes,” Madison whispered, leaning in closer to her.  He smelled like a subtle hint of masculine cleanliness.  “To answer your question.  I’m a junior.”

God, did she really sound like the biggest idiot on the planet?

“Yeah, me too,” Brady said with a smile.  “I haven’t seen you around campus.  Are you a psych major?”

“Criminology,” she replied, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.  It was only when her eyes happened to glance at the dark lock of hair that she realized what she was doing and immediately stopped.  Madison prided herself in that she was not
that
girl.  “You?”

He nodded his head.  “Yeah, I want to be a research psychologist with an emphasis in criminal trials,” he explained.  “I guess a basic example of this is conducting a study to figure out if a defendant’s race influences whether or not they will be sentenced to death.”

“That’s really interesting.”  Her mind actually forced herself to shake her head at how lame that response sounded.  “I’m interested more in the why a criminal does what he does, but even more than that, why people and the media are fascinated with a particular criminal over another criminal, despite the exact same criteria a crime and criminal has.”

“Criteria?”

“Sorry.”  Yes, she was blushing. 
Again
.  God, what had gotten into her?  “I mean, when I say criteria, I mean the main factors that went into a crime.  For instance, take a white male, mid-forties, snatching a white girl, age five to seven, molested her and then killed her.  Do you know how many similar crimes there are that don’t get the same media attention or spark a public outcry like the one I just mentioned?  I’m not going to stand on some soapbox and demand that there should be more equality in coverage and outrage and all that stuff.  What I’m interested in is
why
people are more interested in crime A over crime B when, essentially, they’re the same.”

He pushed his brows up.  Was it her imagination or did Brady actually look impressed?  Not that she cared or anything.  She was an independent woman and didn’t need any sort of validation.  Not even from a hot student who wanted to be a research psychologist with a focus in criminal trials and read
The Catcher in the Rye
as much as she did.  Oh, and that he had really pretty eyes.  And an adorable smile.  And those freckles –

Stop.

Her face crimsoned even more when she realized that her brain had gone on quite a tangent.  Madison felt like a silly middle school girl who had a crush on the quiet, smart guy.  Except now, he seemed to notice her.  He
had
chosen to sit next to her, after all, when he could have chosen to sit practically anywhere.

“Wow,” he murmured.  “I’ve never heard someone describe it like that.  That would be incredibly interesting to explore.”  He paused, setting his book down and crossing his arms over his chest.  “So are you from around here?”

A groan from the professor caused the conversation to halt once again.  “Sorry guys, just hang on a couple more minutes,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen as his fingers typed furiously on the keyboard.  “I promise I’m not doing this on purpose, though I do hope your thirst for social psychology is anticipating.”  

When Madison was certain the professor wasn’t going to say anything else, she tilted her head toward Brady, and said, “No, actually.
  South Haven.  A small town in Michigan.”

“Really?”
  He sounded surprised.  “Why come out to California?”

“Would it sound cliché if I said the weather?”  The question was rhetorical and Madison was glad that Brady understood that.  “Actually, I love the beach.  It’s just… calming. 
Inspiring.  I hate cities.  I hate New York.  I just loved how relaxed and unpretentious the people from here are.  I came here a long time ago, actually, with my family when I was ten.  My dad took us to Disneyland.  It was one of the best moments of my life.  I never forgot it.  So here I am.”  Again, the redness burned her cheeks.  “Sorry.  I’m babbling.”

“Please.  Don’t apologize.”  He managed to lock eyes with her, despite her embarrassment.  “You seem to lead an interesting life, Madison.  I’d love to hear more about it.”

Her heart leapt.  As much as she hated to admit it.  But she bit down on her bottom lip in order to keep her thoughts and her ramblings to herself.

“Oh,” she said in a soft, shy voice.  Yes, shy.  Madison Montgomery was never shy, not even around the opposite sex. 
Until now, apparently.  “Actually, I’d love to know more about you.”  Oh God, how lame.  How lame!  “Are you from around here?”

“Yup,” he said.  “Born and raised in Irvine.  Probably the most boring story ever told. 
Nothing much to say.  But I like it.”  He shrugged his shoulders.  “I’m hoping to travel, you know, around the world so I can say I’ve lived.  But I’d still like to settle back down here.  In Orange County.  I’m saving up.  Working at the movie theatre.  You know the AMC at the District?”

“Eh…”  Madison shrugged her shoulders.  “I mean, I’ve heard of the District.  It’s like a mall, right? 
But not as big.  But I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s about twenty minutes from here,” Brady said.  “Ten if you drive like me.  I also work as a security guard for my neighborhood.  It’s the lamest job.”

Madison laughed.  “Do you get to wear a uniform?” she asked.

Now it was Brady that blushed, and yes, he looked absolutely adorable.  His freckles looked more prominent on his pale skin.  “Kind of,” he said and then quickly changed the subject.  “Anyways, do you work?”

Oh God.  The ultimate question.

“All right, while we’re waiting for this to load, I just want you all to know,” the professor interrupted once again, “these PowerPoint notes are on Blackboard so you can print them out if you want.”  Then, under his breath, “come on, come on, come on…”

While he spoke, Madison tried to think as quickly as she possibly could.  She didn’t want to lie.  She didn’t like lying.  But she didn’t want this guy – who was so cute and so smart – to suddenly drop her because of her job.  It wasn’t like a career or anything, but again, she was worried about being taken seriously.  And she was sure that if Brady found out what she did to make money, he would think she was some ditzy bimbo who used her body to her advantage instead of working her ass off like he did with his two jobs.  So what should she say?

“So?” he asked when the professor had finished addressing the class. 
“Work?”

“Oh, right, yes I do,” she said.  “I work at Sea Side Ice Palace. 
In Newport.”

“Oh, I love that place.  I used to go as a kid.”  His face suddenly darkened and his eyes looked concerned.  No wonder she suspected they were blue; there were flecks of the color in his light brown eyes.  “Did you hear what happened to Ken Brown, the owner of the Gulls?  I’m sure you know all about it.  I’m not much of a hockey fan – I love basketball and the Lakers – but God, how depressing.  You never would expect that in Newport Beach, of all places.”

“All right, simmer down,” the professor said.  He looked up from the computer and gestured at his class in order to emphasize his words.  “I’m Professor Cassens, and this –“ he clicked his pointer at the overhead projector where an introduction slide with his name, the course, and the ticket number splashed across the bright orange background flashed on the giant screen “- is social psychology.”

Well, no more discussion. 
At least for now.  Which might be a good thing.  Madison really didn’t want to talk about Ken Brown’s murder.  People, even those who weren’t hockey fans, were doing enough of that anyways.        

13
.
 
She had a half an hour before the game started.  It was the second preseason game but Seraphina doubted there were more people at any of the previous preseasons before this one.  More protestors lined up in front of Sea Side – security would ask them to leave ten minutes before the puck dropped -  while more tickets were sold to people – To boo Thorpe?  To see if she would play him tonight?  She didn’t know, and really, it didn’t matter – and on top of all of that, the press was like a small gang, waiting to pounce on her and get her official statement.

             
Seraphina knew she would have to make one soon.  She was surprised that she able to have avoided them such a long time, but she knew that a sneaky journalist would eventually corner her and she’d be pressured to tell them something, anything about her grandfather’s murder, the fact that Thorpe is still attached to the team despite a lack of contract and the fact that he was a suspect in the murder of Ken, or maybe her acquiring a team she had no idea how to run.  But now, thanks to a particular article in today’s paper, she knew everyone would want to know what she thought about her uncle, Alan Brown, being the police’s prime suspect in her grandfather’s murder.

             
To be honest, Seraphina wouldn’t have even known such a thing if Katella hadn’t called her from work, ordering Seraphina to pick up
The Orange County Register
.  There, splattered on the front page, was a picture of Alan himself underneath the headline
Son Responsible?
  She had read the article at least four times in the safety of her grandfather’s –
her
– office, still not quite believing it.  She hadn’t left the room since she had gotten there at just after nine in the morning except to ask one of the interns to pick her up a sandwich at Panera.  The plan was for her to go through some paperwork that involved learning more about her players, their stats (and what those stats meant) in relation to their salaries, and any comments or observations on their attitudes.  There were actually a stack of unopened folders on her desk, but before she could get any actual work done, her eyes always drifted to the paper and she was forced to read the article again, as if she was reminding herself that it was real.  She was kind of upset that Detective Christopher Williams hadn’t called her or Katella and told either of them personally that he, along with the force, suspected her uncle, that she had to find out from a newspaper, but she couldn’t muster up the energy to get mad and call him to ask about it.  She had other things she needed to worry about.

Like the fact that
Alan might have killed Papa.

Despite the front page article and colored photo, the article itself was vague with actual information about why the police chose
Alan, but Christopher Williams was quoted saying they had enough evidence to suspect him.  What that evidence was, the journalist could only speculate, but apparently anonymous sources said that Alan was known for his unpredictable temper.  A couple of witnesses said they saw Papa and Alan fighting a lot about the team.  An ex-girlfriend of his claimed that he hit her when he was drunk.  But nothing about why the cops actually believed Alan could have done it.  Killed his father.  Wasn’t that hearsay or something?  Surely there was something else.

Seraphina didn’t exactly know what to believe. 
Alan never lost control of his temper when he was around Seraphina.  At least, she didn’t remember him doing so.  He would get terse with her and he yelled at her, but she never felt threatened by him.  Maybe Katella experienced something different with him.  She would ask her older sister later during the game.

But to kill Papa?
  Sure, Alan was greedy but Seraphina wasn’t sure if that greed could propel Alan to actually kill.  But maybe.  If these stories held a grain of truth.  Was she being naïve in believing that this man, this man who had used her in the past in order to get on his father’s good side, wasn’t so greedy to murder?  She wasn’t sure.  But she liked to have faith in people no matter what, even though it burned her in the past.

Could possibly burn her now, what with her publicly backing Brandon Thorpe despite his suspicious relationship with her grandfather.

Instead of reading that article yet again, Seraphina turned to look the new picture sitting on the desk, the one she had placed there herself.  It was one of the few changes she had made to the office once the police were through with it, but it was the same frame that had held the picture of her and her sister, before it was damaged in the struggle that took place before –

“How did you do this?” she whispered, her eyes studying the picture of her grandfather.  It was a recent one taken only a couple of weeks before all these changes were forced to take place.  He was smiling, wearing his sailor’s cap that seemed glued to the top of his head, and his blue eyes were twinkling mischievously as they always did.  It reminded her of millions of memories, and even though her pain was raw and it brought tears to her eyes, it also gave her strength.  As though he was here with her now, watching over her, guiding her.    “Why did you choose me?  I don’t know if I can really do this.”

The phrases were practically common now, a religious chant that came to her lips in time of stress.  But instead of soothing her, it just added to the pile of stress already on her shoulders.  She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be the carefree twenty-three year old she had been in the past, but there was no way in hell she’d sell the team.  Not to give Alan and Ryan a bout of money they did absolutely nothing for.