From the author of Lights Out comes sports reporter Kate Green’s next harrowing story, where a famous former teammate is found murdered, and the only way to close the case is to open up old wounds.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Dangerous Play by Elise Hart Kipness, which is out September 17th 2024.
After a tumultuous murder case that almost cost more than her job, sports reporter Kate Green is back on assignment covering women’s Olympic soccer. Between her experience with athletic stardom and days playing with Savannah Baker, head coach of the USA team, Kate is sure to get the story that will reestablish her career.
She just didn’t expect that story to involve murder.
When famous jewelry designer Alexa Kane is found dead in the locker room, Kate’s promising future screeches to a halt as her past resurfaces. Alexa played with Kate and Savannah on the U.S. Youth National Team, but there was no reason for her to be at the stadium now.
Kate’s investigation puts her in close contact with her estranged father, an NYPD detective who has his own past to answer for. As their secrets collide, Kate will have to decide which ones to keep—and which ones to reveal to stop the killer.
Chapter 7
Why is Alexa Kane, someone I haven’t seen in decades, lying dead in an ice bath of the training room of the U.S. Women’s National Team? Why here? Why now? Why her? I move my eyes from Alexa’s limp body to Savy. She’s waiting for me. Arms folded across her chest, steeled for what’s to come.
“It’s as much a surprise to me as to you.” She preempts my accusation, digging her toe into the floor. “Assuming you are surprised, Kate,” she adds, lips pulled tight.
I want to remind Savy she has much more to hide than me. But I stop myself. We need to deal with the crime scene, meaning get out of here.
I glance at Alexa’s body again. My heart sinks. I can’t believe she’s dead.
“Guys,” Quinn interrupts. “What are you talking about? OMG. Did you know her?”
We both glance at Quinn. For an instant, I forgot about her. I imagine that Sav did too.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Savy says, dismissing Quinn, her southern drawl back.
Quinn seems too distracted to question her coach. “I’ve never seen a dead body before,” Quinn says, tone low. “I don’t feel so good . . .” She bows her head, her body convulsing. She chokes and turns, heaving onto the floor.
I gag at the smell, holding back the bile surfacing in my mouth. We need to call the police.
While I’m not a cop, I come from a long line of law enforcement on my biological father’s side. Although, until very recently, Liam Murphy remained a practical stranger. Liam abandoned my brother, mother, and me for his job. I still remember the fight between my mom and Liam. I was six, and we were in his hospital room. The doctors had just removed a bullet from his side. My mom gave him an ultimatum—his family or the force. Liam chose the force, and Mom moved my brother and me across the country. As if that weren’t bad enough, Liam made almost no effort to see us on his designated weekends and holidays, blowing us off nine times out of ten.
But when I reconnected with Liam this past autumn, I sensed a change in him. And a nagging feeling his decision to stay on the force was more complicated than I imagined. Or maybe I’m just desperate to believe Liam’s a good guy. That’s what my brother would tell me, if I had shared the fact that I’m back in touch with dear ole dad.
I dial Liam.
“Hi, Kate.” I hear a smile in his raspy voice. “Great live shot! I loved how you held that coach’s feet to the fire—”
I glance at Sav. “Thanks. I called because there’s an emergency—” I quickly explain the situation.
“An ambulance and police are on their way.” He’s all business now. “Get out of that room, then call me back.”
I make a motion to Savy and Quinn that we need to leave.
“Excuse me,” Savy snipes. “Who put you in charge?”
“Give it a rest,” I respond. “We need to leave this room. Don’t touch anything,” I say, looking at Quinn as she picks up a garbage can and leans over, puking into it. “Anything else,” I say to Quinn. We need to leave before we spread more unwanted DNA, making it harder for the forensic team to uncover evidence.
Quinn puts the can down and wipes her mouth with her sleeve. I scan the space, taking in the physical therapy tables; the second ice bath, next to the one with Alexa’s body; and the shelves of supplies—lotions, Ace bandages, latex gloves. I walk to the shelf and carefully remove a pair of gloves and pull them on.
“Where are the trainers?” I ask, realizing they usually come into this room right after the game. Savy says she told them to give the team a little time to celebrate before showing up. That strikes me as odd, given that players don’t like to put off treatment. But it does mean fewer people messed with the scene. I wonder what brought Savy and Quinn into this room. It will be my first question to them once we leave.
“Go straight into the office,” I instruct them. “Do not tell anyone. We don’t want to alarm people. The stadium still has a lot of fans in the stands—” I don’t finish my thought. My fear that hearing about a murder could cause a panic among the crowd.
The two women fall into line; Quinn’s whole body still shakes. I reach my gloved hand to the doorknob, take a breath, and turn the handle. I’m careful not to touch any other part of the door, so the police can dust for prints. I blink against the bright light as Quinn and Savy walk past me and into the locker room.
The loud music hurts my skin, like hands pawing at me. I want to scream for the women to stop celebrating. The juxtaposition of the revelry with the horror on the other side of the door feels disconcerting. How can they be so disrespectful? I feel shell shocked. The players laugh and dance and drink like they don’t have a care in the world. I can’t square their euphoria with Alexa’s dead body behind the training-room door. It’s as if my brain can’t hold the two realms in one space. But there’s nothing to do. They don’t know.
I appraise the players as we walk across the room. Taking in the long ponytails bouncing, the wide smiles . . . the appearance of jubilee. Is someone faking? Or celebrating more than the victory, but also a successful murder? Assuming it was a murder. Given the location and the wound on her head, how could it not be?
But how? Security is at an all-time high. Only a very limited number of people could get to the locker room. Or an extremely clever criminal mastermind.
Hazel sidles up and rolls her eyes. “More Quinn drama? Coach must have really laid into her.”
“What do you mean?” I turn to study Hazel. Does she know? Could she be involved?
“Quinn looks like she’s seen a ghost . . . Coach must have really ripped her a new one. Right?” Hazel clearly wants to revel in a Quinn beatdown. Does she think Quinn’s screams were because Savy scolded her?
“It wasn’t like that,” I reply to Hazel, disappointed she’s acting as petty as Quinn. I quicken my pace, motioning to Quinn and Savy to move faster. Someone shakes a bottle of seltzer, then sprays it around the room. At least they’ve moved away from alcohol. The liquid soaks my top. Two girls pull Quinn toward them to dance.
“Oh my God, you guys—”
“Quinn,” Savy scolds. Quinn drops her head and falls back in line. The girls shrug and return to the rumba, heads back, laughing.
“Kate.” Bill grabs my arm as I’m about to step inside Savy’s office. “We’ve got to do some more interviews.” He tries to hand me the microphone while telling me Charlie’s already called, asking for our footage.
I’d like to tell Bill what’s going on. But someone might overhear.
“Give me one minute,” I say, explaining to Bill I need to speak with Savy.
Bill puts his hand against the door to Savy’s office, keeping me from closing it. He leans down, the smell of cigarettes strong on his breath. “Kate, Charlie won’t be happy . . .” He scrunches his eyes, worry flickering across his face. Not for himself but for me. This assignment signals a second chance for me. But Charlie will understand once he hears about the murder. He has to.
“I appreciate your concern.” I lean closer to him. “Truly. Trust me when I say, there’s no other option.”
Bill steps back, sensing I won’t relent. “One minute,” I mouth and shut the door as he shakes his head.
I lock the door and close the blinds to block the window to the locker room.
The two women sit: Savy at her small desk, Quinn in one of the chairs facing it. The office has an impostor feel—the women soccer posters not quite hiding the permanent NYCFC paraphernalia on the walls. I scan the posters, mostly action shots—one features Hazel, holding a ball in front of the goal, her skin glistening. The other shows Quinn striking a ball while somehow managing to wink at the camera.
I look from the poster to Quinn, slouched in the chair. This could be the first time I’ve seen Quinn still. Sitting in the chair, she looks, dare I say, vulnerable? With light eyes; straight, fine brown hair; and freckles sprinkled across her cheeks. She must sense me staring. “What?”
I take out my phone and call Liam back.
“The medics and police should be there any minute,” he says. “We need to get everyone out of the locker room.”
“But we can’t cause panic.” I remind him of all the fans still in the stadium. “What if we go to the media cafeteria—it’s upstairs, but will be away from the crowds.” I explain how we could move the players through the tunnel to the elevator and then go to the cafeteria. “We should avoid most people that way.”
“What about reporters? Besides you?” he asks, and I can picture his blue eyes, my eyes, puzzling out the scenario.
“You’re right, we need to avoid having reporters spot us. What if security tells all the reporters they need to get to the press room? The media is expecting to hear from the players soon, anyway. And that would clear the area.”
There’s silence on the other end. The music from the locker room seeps into the office, along with laughter. “What happens when no players show up for the press conference? Won’t the media get suspicious?”
“We are used to hurry up and wait situations.” I think about all the times I waited and waited for a press conference to start. “It’s unusual when things start on time. But the police will have to give some kind of statement. It’s just a matter of clearing most of the stadium of fans first.”
“Good point,” he tells me, and even though I’m a forty-three-year-old grown-ass woman, I can’t help feeling a little proud about the compliment.
“I’m about half an hour away. And Kate,” he says, voice more of a whisper. “Keep an eye out. There might be a murderer still at the stadium.”
“Believe me, the thought crossed my mind.” I hang up and turn my attention to Savy and Quinn. Time for answers: “Why were you two in the training room?” I ask.
“I don’t know what’s so surprising about a coach and a player being in their team’s training room, Kate. You act like we killed her.”
“You don’t think the first question the police will ask is why you were in the room?” I’m tired of Savy’s obfuscation. “Do you have something to hide?” I look from one woman to the other. Quinn starts quivering. Again.
“Whatever.” Savy shrugs. “Go ahead, Quinn, tell her.”
“But what if she reports it?” Quinn’s voice squeaks.
“Off the record, Kate,” Savy states.
“Agreed.” I lower myself into the other chair across from Savy, next to Quinn, who is fidgeting with her hair, twirling the ends around her index finger. Over and over again.
“I tweaked my knee during the game.” Quinn bites her lower lip. “I thought I should get some ibuprofen and an ice pack.” She rubs her knee, as if to prove a point. Her whole demeanor collapses. Tears sprout from her eyes. Not for the body of a dead woman she doesn’t know. But because she’s worried about her career and whether she’ll play the next game. If there’s a next game.
“You went to check on her?” I ask Sav.
“She was limping pretty badly,” Savy says. “I might need to play someone else.”
“It’s nothing.” Quinn jumps up and starts hopping from one leg to the other. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just a little ache.”
Savy shakes her head, in no mood for Quinn dramatics.
“I almost didn’t see the body at all. But when Coach came in, I bumped against the ice tub . . . and her arm.”
My mind returns to the image of Alexa and her lifeless body. So many years have passed since we spoke. Decades. I always thought I’d have a chance to explain.
Bill knocks. I unlock the door and pull him inside.
“What’s going on?” Bill studies us. I debate telling him the truth. What if he feels obliged to tell Charlie? Still, we are a team. He’d trust me.
Savy glares at me, but I ignore her, turning my attention to Bill. “There’s been an incident. I can’t go into detail. But it’s bad. And if we report it, or even share the information at this moment, we could cause a panic.”
Bill looks wary. Then scared. “Are we in danger? Is there a bomb or a gunman?”
“Oh my God,” Quinn declares. “No! It’s a dead body. Someone’s dead in the ice bath.”
“Is this a joke?” Bill looks at me, his grizzled brow furrowed.
“It’s not,” I respond.
“Shit,” Bill says, slumping against the wall.
“Shit,” I respond and fill him in on the details.
Bill convinces me that we must loop Charlie in and promises me Charlie wouldn’t be stupid enough to do something to incite a panic. I don’t completely agree, but I acquiesce. Bill goes to the corner to call Charlie as the music in the locker room snaps off.
“Stay calm, please.” A woman’s voice rises over murmurs. “We are with the NYPD and—”
Savy gets up and pushes past me and out the door. Quinn and I follow. “Settle down,” Savy says, stepping up on the bench. The women look from the two police officers to her.
“Are we in danger?” one of the players says. Murmurs rise. Girls start gripping their phones.
“Everyone, put your phones down,” the police officer orders. “DO NOT COMMUNICATE with anyone.” She tells her partner to collect everyone’s devices.
Hazel starts protesting. Other teammates join in.
“Do something,” I hiss at Savy, and for the first time ever, she seems at a loss.
I jump up onto the bench next to her. “Everyone, quiet,” I yell. “You need to be quiet if you want to know what’s going on.”
Quinn elbows one of the women to stop talking.
“You are not in danger.” I say the words slowly. “But there has been an incident. The concern now is that we don’t alarm the fans in the stadium and cause a panic. Please hand over your phones.”
There’s more grumbling, but the players comply.
After the phones are collected, the officers tell everyone that we are moving locations and to please line up. Nervous looks pass between the women, but they do as they’re told.
We emerge from the locker room into the tunnel that just an hour ago felt like sacred ground. Now the concrete walls feel oppressive and tainted. We march to the elevator as sirens sound in the distance. Getting louder. And closer. The echo of a bullhorn reaches us: “Yankee Stadium is closing. Please slowly make your way toward the exits.”
“They’re lying,” some of the younger girls whisper.
“I think I heard shots,” another girl squeals.
“Silence,” the female officer yells.
I walk up to the girls whispering and tell them they don’t have to worry.
Their eyes fill with disbelief. Of course I’d say something like that.
We continue as footsteps grow louder. Seconds pass, and then the sounds escalate—breaking into a riotous gallop echoing from the concourse below. Screams from outside reverberate in the hallway. I have the sinking feeling it’s no longer a question of if someone will be injured, or worse, but how many.
