21. Loading the Bar
21
LOADING THE BAR
LIAM
I wake to the crisp light of a cold January morning filtering through my floor-to-ceiling windows. The sky outside is a brilliant, cloudless blue—the kind that promises a bitter cold day.
My bed feels different this morning. Unusual. Warmer. Because of the woman curled up next to me.
Sophie is still fast asleep, her dark hair fanned out across my pillow. Her face is peaceful, lips slightly parted, long lashes resting against her cheeks. The ivory sheets are tangled around her naked body, rising and falling gently with each breath, and I feel my dick stirring.
I prop myself up on one elbow, drinking in the sight of Sophie sleeping peacefully beside me. It’s surreal, having her here in my bed. But as I watch her, I feel uncomfortable. It’s a confusing mix of contentment and fear.
Flopping back onto the sheets, I close my eyes. Slow and steady breaths. In for four, hold for four, out for four.
As my mind races, I scan my body, pinpointing the source of my discomfort. There’s a swirling knot in my stomach and a tightness in my chest.
It hits me. Coach Novak .
The web of lies we’ve been spinning. The thought of coming clean twists my gut. Motionless, I continue to breathe deeply.
I let the grim scenarios, each one worse than the last, wash over me. Coach could bench me, effectively ending our playoff chances, affecting the Defenders as a whole. He could trade me to some backwater team in the middle of nowhere. Hell, he’s got enough pull in the league that he could probably get me blacklisted entirely.
And it’s not just my career on the line. I’d be far from my family, unable to take care of my parents. Both Erin and Kieran still need money to graduate from college. How would they cope if I lost everything?
I spiral through worst case scenarios for a while longer, but gradually, the fog lifts, and a sense of clarity washes over me. The fear is still there, but it’s no longer overwhelming.
Opening my eyes, I turn to look at Sophie again. In the moment of stillness, I realize she’s worth it, no matter the consequences.
The next step becomes crystal clear. It’s time to stop hiding and face Coach head-on.
We need to tell the truth.
I gently squeeze Sophie’s hand, my resolve solidifying. It’s time to come clean.
And if that means taking on the wrath of Coach Novak? Well, bring it on. I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge on the ice, and I’m sure as hell not starting now.
Sophie stirs and mumbles something incoherent, her hand reaching out in her sleep until it finds mine. Her fingers intertwine with my own, and just like that, I’m myself again .
But the peace I’m feeling is interrupted when Sophie suddenly bolts upright, her eyes wide with panic.
“Oh my God, what time is it?” she yelps as she scans the room in confusion, fumbling for her phone on the nightstand. “Shit, shit, shit!”
I can’t help but chuckle at her bedhead and wild eyes. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
She shoots me a glare that could freeze hell over. “This isn’t funny, Liam! I’m late for my advanced biochemistry lab. We’re doing enzyme kinetics today, and if I miss it, I’ll fall behind!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down now. You’ll catch up later. It’s just one class.” I try to keep my tone light.
Sophie scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Of course, you wouldn’t understand. This isn’t like missing hockey practice.”
A flicker of irritation sparks in my chest. I’m left speechless as she continues to rush around the room, gathering her things.
I stand up and reach for her, aiming for a good morning kiss. If only she would slow down, I’m sure I could persuade her to come back to bed. “Come on, angel. Stay with me a bit longer?”
Sophie jerks away like I’m on fire. “This is exactly what I was afraid of!”
“Whoa, what?” Confusion and annoyance jolt through me. What the hell?
She’s hopping around, trying to pull on her jeans. It’d be comical if she didn’t look so pissed, and if I wasn’t feeling increasingly bewildered. “This! You! Distracting me! Holding me back!”
I hold up my hands up in surrender, irritation flaring again. “Hey now, calm down?—”
“It’s not only about biochem. I have a med school interview with NYU this afternoon,” she cuts me off, taking my jersey and throwing it on the bed, then yanking on her sweater. “I need to be on top of my game, not...” She gestures wildly between us.
“Freshly fucked?” I supplement helpfully, aiming for levity.
“Whatever.” She scoffs and adjusts her sweater.
My mind reels, the sting of rejection I’ve never felt before hitting me hard.
“Sophie, come on,” I try to calm her. “I’d never want to hold you back. I think what you’re doing is terrific?—”
But she’s not listening, too busy shoving her feet into her boots. “I won’t let anything distract me from my plans, Liam. Not even you.”
The words hit me like a body check, sucking all the air out of my lungs.
“Wait, angel. Let me drive you.”
She grabs her bag and coat, heading for the door. “I’ll grab an Uber. I’ll...I’ll call you later, ok?”
And just like that, she’s gone, slamming the door behind her and leaving me feeling like I’ve been hit by a freight train.
What the hell just happened? One minute, I’m ready to risk my career and face down Coach Novak, and the next, Sophie’s running out like I’m some kind of career-destroying demon.
I go back to bed and flop onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling. Her scent is enveloping me. I can’t say I’ve ever been pushed away like this before. Hell, I’ve never cared enough to notice.
“Well, O’Connor,” I mutter to myself, “looks like you’ve got some work to do.”
I grab my phone, contemplating whether to text her or not. The need to clear things up battles with my bruised ego. But I toss the phone aside, deciding to give her space.
I drag myself out of bed, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep—and rejection—and throw my gym gear into a duffel bag. At least I can work out my frustrations on the weights.
In the kitchen, I start assembling my pre-workout fuel. A scoop of vanilla protein powder, a handful of frozen berries, a banana, a splash of oat milk I bought for Sophie, just in case she’d agree to stay over. Well, that didn’t go as planned. I sigh as the blender whirs to life, drowning out my thoughts for a blessed few seconds. I down half the shake, the cold, sweet mixture a stark contrast to the bitter taste of this morning’s scene.
The drive to the Defenders’ training complex is a blur of early morning traffic and grayish winter light. I sip the rest of my shake at red lights, the protein and carbs slowly working their way into my system. As I pull into the parking lot, the massive structure looms before me, all sleek lines and tinted glass. It’s like a fortress dedicated to turning us into the best versions of ourselves.
I badge in, the familiar beep a welcome sound. The lobby’s all polished concrete and steel, with larger-than-life photos of past and present Defenders lining the walls. As I push through the double doors into the gym proper, the scent hits me first—that unique cocktail of sweat, rubber, and pump.
The weight room is a marvel of modern training tech. Racks of dumbbells gleam under the bright lights, their chrome surfaces reflecting the early morning sun streaming through the high windows. Top-of-the-line machines hum softly, ready to push us to our limits. In one corner, a turf area for sprints and agility work waits, promising burning lungs and screaming muscles .
Bring it on.
My eyes are drawn to the far end of the room, where Dmitri is setting up at the squat rack. His focused expression softens as he spots me.
“Morning, Captain,” he calls out, his accent thick as always. “Care to join me? I’ve just finished my warm-up.”
I nod, grateful for the company. “Sounds good, Dima. Let’s see if we can crush some personal records today.”
Dmitri grins and starts loading the bar. He slides on plate after plate with practiced ease—four forty-fives on each side, bringing the total to four hundred and ten pounds. It’s a hefty weight, but we are both big players, weighing more than two hundred pounds. We can handle it.
While he finishes setting up, I start my warm-up routine. I begin with some dynamic stretches, focusing on loosening up my hips and ankles. Then I move to bodyweight squats, feeling the light burn in my quads and glutes. A few sets of light Romanian deadlifts follow, homing in on that hamstring stretch.
By the time I approach the rack, I’m breathing harder, a light sheen of sweat on my skin. My muscles feel warm and ready. As I chalk up my hands, I can feel the morning’s tension starting to melt away.
Dmitri finishes his set, his face flushed and a vein pulsing in his forehead. He racks the bar with a satisfying clang that echoes through the gym.
I step up, rolling my shoulders and feeling the chalk dust on my palms. The knurling of the bar bites into my hands as I grip it, a familiar sensation that grounds me. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs, then duck under the bar.
The cold metal settles across my shoulders, heavy and unyielding. I unrack the weight, feeling it compress my spine, my core tightening instinctively. The first rep is always a shock to the system. I descend slowly, thighs burning as they stretch under the load. At the bottom, my hamstrings touch my calves, and I explode upward, driving through my heels.
One rep down. The weight already feels substantial, but there’s an anticipation building in my muscles, a readiness for the challenge ahead. I can almost feel the impending rush of endorphins, the satisfying burn that will come with pushing my limits.
As I finish my last rep, Dmitri clears his throat. I pause, the bar still across my shoulders, my quads quivering slightly under the static hold.
“Liam,” he says, his voice low, barely audible over my controlled breathing, “I think I might know something about the PEDs scandal.”
His words hit me harder than the weight I’m carrying.
I nearly drop the bar in surprise. Setting it back on the rack with a loud clang, I turn to face him. “What? How?”
Dmitri wipes his face with a towel, his expression serious. “Remember when I first joined the team? I stayed out in Brighton Beach for a while.”
I nod. Brighton Beach, also known as Little Odessa, is a slice of Russia right here in Brooklyn.
“Well,” he continues, “I met this guy there, Yuri. He was from Chelyabinsk, my hometown in Russia. We got to talking, and he mentioned he was working for a Russian businessman. Alexei Volkov.”
My brow furrows. “Okay, but what does that have to do with the PEDs?”
Dmitri’s eyes dart around the room, making sure we’re alone. “Yuri tried to pressure me into working for Volkov. Said it was easy money. They wanted inside information about injuries, team strategies, anything that could help them place more accurate bets. And...they wanted me to influence game outcomes.”
I feel my blood run cold. “The Bratva? “
Dmitri nods grimly. “I shut it down immediately. Told them I was still under contract with Traktor Chelyabinsk —that’s the KHL team I played for back home. The owner there, he’s got connections that even the Bratva won’t mess with. After I mentioned his name, they backed off.” He pauses, his expression hardening. “But Liam, I’m almost certain it’s them behind this PEDs business. Planting drugs and then betting against us? It’s their style.”
I feel my blood run cold as the implications sink in. “You really think they’ve gone this far? Actually planted evidence in our locker room?”
Dmitri nods, his massive shoulders tense. “I do. And now we need to figure out how to get them off our backs. They won’t stop at this, Liam. If we don’t do something, it’ll only get worse.”
“Christ,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “So, what do we do? Go to the police? I’ve got a friend working there.”
Dmitri shakes his head. “We need to be careful. These guys, they’re dangerous. We can’t just accuse them without solid evidence.”
I nod, my mind racing. “Okay, so we investigate. Quietly. See if we can find any connections between the Bratva and anyone among the Defenders.”
“Exactly,” Dmitri agrees. “And Liam? We keep this between us for now. The fewer people who know, the safer we all are.”
If Dmitri’s right, this goes way beyond a simple doping scandal .
“Dima,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, “we need to talk about this more. But not now. Let’s focus on what we’re here for.”
He nods in agreement. As we turn back to the weights, my mind’s reeling.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get more complicated.