Jake showed up to the rink early the next morning to get a look around and see if there was anything in Ziegler's locker that might help the case.

There's nothing like a quiet, dark arena. It makes the hockey as religion metaphor even more realistic. He truly did love hockey and always wished he'd been a bit bigger and stronger and he might have had a career in it. "That way lies madness" he said to himself.

He found Ziegler's locker and managed to pick the lock on it. Not all the players had locks but Ziegler did. That in itself was interesting. In the locker he found a notebook with a list of all the games from this season and last with Ziegler's own stats plus the score, but some of the games had asterisks beside them with a few other one or two digit numbers. Sometimes the numbers were the same and sometimes a number was crossed out. They looked like jersey numbers. He took a few photos that he could email this to Rose and have her run down the games and see if they were the ones that got thrown. This could be the evidence they needed. But there was something not quite right about the book.

He turned around just in time to see the blade of the stick smack him across the head as Ziegler knocked him unconscious.

When he came to, he smelled of rum and had a terrible headache. He was in Jerry Quinn's office in a chair.

"Is this what I hired you to do Doyle? Get drunk and pass out in my locker room? How in the name of Jesus, Mary and Joseph are you going to able to practice this morning and play tonight?"

"I'm not drunk," he said.

"You sure reeks of the booze" replied Quinn.

"Yeah, I do, don't I" observed Jake. "But its not booze, or I mean, I didn't drink it. I was here looking for evidence and someone smacked me with a hockey stick. They must of poured the rum over me after I passed out."

"Who would do that," asked Quinn.

"Well, it was Ziegler's locker I was looking in when it happened."

"Ziegler? Too stupid. He couldn't be the brains behind the game fixing and they couldn't trust him to be part of the scam because he can't keep a secret." Quinn was shaking his head as he talked.

"Well he had a book in there of all the games and scores and what looked like notes about what games would be thrown or had been thrown."

Jake scratched his head. "In fact, I think that he had a star by tonight's game. Maybe there's a plan to throw tonight's hockey game against the Flatrock Flyers."

Jake called Mal, "Dad, I need you to look into whether there is any illegal betting going on for tonight's game between the Gould's Grinders and the Flatrock Flyers. I think this could be one of the games they are going to fix. Tell Des to be extra alert."

"Who's Des?" inquired Quinn.

"One of my associates", said Jake. "He is undercover on the referee side of the case."

Quinn nodded, "good idea. Now get changed and hit the ice. Tonight's game with the Flatrock Flyers is going to a be even more important now."

After Jake left the dressing room, Quinn used his master key to open Ziegler's locker and found the notebook. "Bastard" he muttered as he closed it, closed the locker and took it back to his desk.

After another grueling workout, Jake went for lunch with the same group of players as he had the day before. This time he broached the subject of the fixed games with them.

"Any of you ever heard about illegal betting on our games?" he asked the group.

"You gotta have a serious gambling habit to bet on our league," said Robby. "I mean, isn't sports betting about odds. Who knows anything about the odds of this group of oddballs?"

"Yeah," said Fowler, "why would you bet on this league?"

"Any bet's a good one if you know the outcome," said Jake.

"You mean, fixing games?" asked Robby looking incredulous.

"Maybe" answered Jake. "Stranger things have happened."

"I can't think of any games that seemed like they were fixed, on our side, at least," said Fowler, skeptically. "Whadda you care anyway as long as you get paid."

"It would be a big problem for a journeyman like me to get hooked up with a crooked league," said Jake, angrily. "Besides, it's hockey man, it's sacred."

"Sacred, sure. So damn sacred that when you get clocked in the face with an elbow and your career ends, they just send you down and down until you get to this shithole," said the player beside Fowler. He was the goalie for the Grinders.

"That happen to you", asked Jake.

"No, my brother," the goalie replied. "He will never work and never play again. Sacred, eh."

"That's no reason to bet on the game. Unless you need the money to help him or someone else?" Jake queried.

"Are you accusing me of fixing games, dicksmack?" the goalie rose out of his seat and raised his fists. "Let's take this outside and I'll fix you."

"Take it easy pally. I feel bad about your brother, I really do. But I need to know I'm in a clean league."

"Clean as they get, my friend, clean as they get." That was Fowler. "Bill, please sweetie", he said to their server. "I gotta go. See you all tonight."

Meanwhile Des was in the referee's pre-game meeting planning how the game would go.

"The Flatrock Flyers are hard asses, there will be a lot of penalty minutes tonight, but our job is to keep control of the headshots," said Randy Cuffler, the head referee. Smith and Doyle, you need to watch for guys comin' across the line with their heads down, Goulds is notorious for that. They might be seeking majors but we can't let them get away with it." Alan Smith was a new linesman brought in for this game.

"Courtenay, your job is just to make sure all the goals are legit, but also watch your end of the ice for illegal plays. We can always use your view point if we have to watch a replay."

"The Flyer's goalie is a guy called Redmond – Wolf Redmond. He's only been in the league a few weeks. Big guy, long hair. He tends to cover up a lot especially if the puck is close to the line. You have to watch him like a hawk to prevent him from gloving the puck out of the net after a goal."

"Cuffler and Doyle", he continued, "Redmond likes to challenge the linemen after a goal is called. He can be pretty intimidating but don't let him stand you down. Call em like you see em."

Doyle shot back, "I call em as they are. That arsehole, ain't seen nothing yet."

"Maybe so," replied Smith, "but keep your head up, anyway."

Des put his hand up. "Yes, Courtenay?" Smith asked.

"As the goal judge, my ruling stands, no matter what, right?"

"No, if I see on the reply that you blew the call, I can overturn it."

"Yeah, but that practically never happens right, I mean practically, almost, mostly almost never, right?"

"Why do you care, Courteney?"

"Well, you see, this girl, my girlfriend, I mean, maybe my girlfriend, I mean, anyway, she's coming tonight and like, I don't want to be embarrassed by calling a goal and then having it like, not be a goal, and then she might , well, "

"It doesn't happen often Courtenay, I wouldn't worry about it. Besides, with this new kid, Jake Doyle, playing for the Grinders, all the girls will be after him anyway," laughed Cuffler.

"Yeah, all us Doyles are babe magnets," joked Greg Doyle.

"But you, Doyle, are an expensive babe magnet. How the hell do you keep that chick in the jewels that I sees on her? You ain't got that kinda money," said Cuffler.

"You just mind your business, b'y. I has me ways," replied Doyle angrily. "Is this meeting over," he asked Smith.

"Yeah. Just get back here an hour before game time," Smith ordered.

Quinn sat in his office and pondered what to do about Jake Doyle. He had figured out from Ziegler's book that Ziggy knew he was involved in the game-fixing scheme. What he didn't know was whether Jake knew and if so what he would do about it.

Quinn had hired the Doyle's to try and ferret out who was digging into the scam. He had been getting death threats by phone and recently someone had put a letter through his door with his old number fourteen crossed out in red ink.

He had only gotten involved in the game-fixing when his wife and daughter had walked out on him. She didn't know how bad he had been losing money and when she got the divorce lawyers involved he needed a way to get good money fast. He had met a player from the Flatrock Flyers in the bar one night and between them they had cooked up the scheme. Quinn could probably turn one of the refs. He knew Greg Doyle from junior. He was into a pretty expensive babe these days. He had been pretty easy to turn. Greg would just miss a few obvious goals and that was that. Simple.

Only someone had figured out what was going on and he needed to know who. Jake had worked pretty fast identifying Ziegler. Now what?

Quinn's phone buzzed. It was O'Toole from the Flyers.

"Yeah?"

"You called," said O'Toole.

"We might be blown," said Quinn. "I think Ziggy might have figured out the scheme."

"Does he know who all's involved or has he just got yours in a sling?"

"Could be everyone. Not sure."

"What do you think he might do?"

"Go to the cops, I don't know." Quinn sounded nervous.

"I have a plan. Keep him on the ice a lot tonight until his old ass tires out. I'll take him down in front of Doyle and he'll be done."

"You mean a head injury?" asked Quinn.

"No, I mean a ticket to the opera," replied O'Toole angrily. "Of course I mean a head injury. It won't matter to Ziggy, he's ready to retire and already too stupid for anyone to even notice."

"That sounds pretty wrong," said Quinn.

"Not as wrong as you going to jail for illegal gambling, which you will do, because I will not go down with you, my friend," replied O'Toole.

"Okay, okay. It was me that started this. I'll finish it," said Quinn, resignedly.