Trade Deadline - Avon Gale Page 0,6
teacher told the group kindly after Micah’s presentation about sharks that sometimes science doesn’t have the answers was enough, thanks. He didn’t think they’d ever come back.
This group was inquisitive and interested, though, and clamoring to see Dudley.
“How come he’s hurt?” asked one of the kids, who looked to be about fifteen.
“A boat strike,” Micah said. He gestured to Dudley, all two hundred and four pounds of him floating languidly in the tank. “Luckily the skipper reached out immediately, and we were able to get to Dudley here pretty quick. Sometimes people are worried they’ll get in trouble if they call someone, and sometimes people just honestly don’t notice. But thankfully, this person was a Good Samaritan and called us. Dudley had a wound from the boat propeller, and has been receiving fiber and antibiotics. Also, sometimes air gets trapped in the shell and that will cause them to float and not be able to dive, and that happened here, so we’ve had to do a procedure to fix that. He’s been here a while, though, because of his size and the likelihood of infections, which aren’t too dangerous but do add some time to his stay with us. Most of our turtles are smaller, but this guy is a fighter.” Micah smiled fondly.
“He’s pretty,” one of the teenagers said.
“Make a great handbag,” drawled another.
“Ugh,” said the first. “Stop being such an edgelord, Madison.”
“When will he be able to go back in the wild?” one of the adults asked, shooting a dirty look at Madison.
“Probably in the spring,” Micah said. “Dudley here is also going to be a pioneer for some new tracking technology we’re going to use, to better understand migration patterns.” He warmed up to his topic, explaining the new technology and how they would use it to hopefully send out advisories to local wildlife areas about potential risky areas for boats. “We can’t always make boaters more aware or responsible, but we’ve really made a huge impact using this technology and awareness to help the manatees.”
“Manatees are stupid,” whined edgelord Madison.
“You’re stupid,” the guy next to her muttered.
Micah did not miss being a teenager.
“Well,” he said with a smile, ignoring the small battle of wills between Madison and her nemesis, “who wants to see some dolphins?”
Chapter Three
“Morning, Daniel. Thanks for coming in.”
“Hi, Tom.” Daniel shook the hand his general manager offered. Tom Fenton was huge, a few inches taller than Daniel’s six foot three, and his cheek bore a jagged old scar from a high-sticking incident during his pro hockey days. Another scar from a puck that had nearly cost him an eye bisected his left brow, and his crooked nose was a testament to the countless occasions he’d dropped his gloves while on the ice. Even in a suit and tie and pushing sixty, he looked tough as hell.
“We were just getting set up here.” Tom stepped back, allowing Daniel and his agent, Clarke, to step past him into the meeting room. “There’s coffee over there if you want to grab a cup before we get started.”
Daniel’s throat convulsed. He didn’t dare risk it, not while nerves had him feeling like his guts were doing the cha-cha. He’d never walked into a meeting with the Venom’s management team feeling this anxious before. “No, thanks. Had my protein shake this morning.”
Tom grinned. “In my day, it was five cups of joe before practice, black with an inch of sugar on the bottom, and Michelob chasers after the games. Not a protein shake to be seen.”
Daniel smiled back and laughed as expected. The league had been a whole different animal when Tom played the game. Gone were the days of enforcers who could barely skate and existed mostly to throw punches and protect flashy all-stars like Gretzky. Now, if you weren’t lean, fast, and ready to put in serious hours at the gym every day, you might as well retire and start hunting for a commentating gig.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” Tom said, waving to the conference table, where his personal assistant and another man Daniel didn’t recognize sat waiting.
Daniel did as instructed, feeling sweat bloom under the cotton material of his dress shirt. He’d worn a suit and tie, as he always did when meeting with upper management, but in the stuffy room, with bright early August sunshine streaming through the windows, the jacket felt stifling.
Clarke settled next to him while Tom took the chair at the head of the table.
“I assume Clarke filled you