26. Mobsters and Meditation Cushions
26
MOBSTERS AND MEDITATION CUSHIONS
LIAM
T he California road trip was exactly what I needed—three games in four nights to keep my mind off Sophie. Or at least try to. Kind of hard when every coffee shop seems to have oat milk cappuccinos on their menu. Even managed to score twice against the Kings, breaking out my new “heart” celly that had the guys chirping me for days. What can I say? Sometimes you just gotta give the fans what they want.
San Jose and Anaheim flew by in a blur of team meetings, pre-game naps, and checking my phone way too often for someone who’s supposed to be focused on hockey. We swept all three games, which should’ve been enough to keep me riding high. Instead, all I could think about was getting back to New York. Back to our new normal—if you can call sneaking around behind Coach’s back normal.
It’s a delicate dance we’ve got going. Sophie slips into my place after her classes, carrying textbooks and that perfect smile. Sometimes, I watch her study, sprawled across my couch with anatomy flashcards, me bringing her snacks and drinks. Mostly pretzels, fruit and cappuccinos—she’s particular about her diet. But most times, we don’t make it past the front door before her books hit the floor and we’re making out.
Mornings are my favorite. Watching her steal my Defenders hoodie, padding around my kitchen in bare feet while she makes coffee. Trading sleepy kisses before I head to practice and she rushes to class.
Last week, we did the casual dinner date for the cameras. Very public, very proper, very PR-approved, careful not to raise suspicions with Coach. Adam still glares at me in the locker room, but at least he’s stopped threatening to end my career every time Sophie’s name comes up.
It’s not perfect, but I’ll take what I can get.
For now.
The high from tonight’s win is still coursing through my veins as I head for the showers. We crushed the New Jersey Knights, five-two, and I scored three goals. The ice is probably still covered in the hundreds of hats fans threw down to celebrate. Never gets old, watching that rain of baseball caps and beanies flying from the stands after that third goal hits the back of the net.
Pre-game training and my usual meditation routine paid off; I was laser-focused from the first drop of the puck. Even managed not to get distracted thinking about Sophie during warm-ups, which was a feat considering how many screaming fans were pressed against the glass. The TikTok army was out in full force tonight, phones raised high to catch Adam’s famous stretching routine. The man can’t do a single lunge without it turning into social media gold; his latest “pre-game flow check” racked up fifteen million views in two days.
At least that takes some of the heat off me and Sophie.
“Hey Captain!” Nate calls out as I’m getting dressed. “ Penalty Box? We’re celebrating that filthy backhand goal in the third.”
I grin, pulling on my suit jacket. The whole day had been textbook perfect, starting with morning skate, followed by muscle activation work with Dave, our trainer. Just enough to get everything firing right, while he updated me on his latest Tinder disaster. Pretty sure he tells us these horror stories to distract us from the pain when he’s working on our tight spots.
Then I demolished my usual pre-game feast of grilled chicken and quinoa while Nate made gagging sounds at my greens. Hey, these goals don’t score themselves. Though I’ll never admit our team nutritionist is right about the power of roasted brussels sprouts.
Next up: my hour of meditation—a ritual Mom drilled into all of us since we were kids. She’d tell us that our minds were the most powerful tools we had at our disposal, and I tend to agree. Sixty minutes of deep breathing and trying to focus on my energy centers. Though lately the emphasis has been on trying, because my mind keeps wandering to Sophie every time I close my eyes. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she bites her lip when she’s thinking.
Focus, O’Connor. Visualize the perfect slapshot. Not Sophie’s legs. Or her mouth. Or the way she...
Dammit.
My sacred pre-game nap followed, where I absolutely, positively didn’t dream about Sophie wearing nothing but my jersey.
Three hours later, I was lighting up the scoreboard. And now Sophie’s probably waiting up to hear how the game went.
I’m still waiting to follow through on my resolution to come clean with Coach. I keep hoping for the perfect moment. Though at this point I have to admit that there will be no perfect moment. Or even a good moment, for that matter.
Gotta bite that bullet real soon.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. My favorite pre-med student has been texting me updates all day. A photo of her study notes that somehow looked sexy as hell and complaints about her anatomy professor that had me grinning during video review.
But when I pull out my phone, my stomach drops. It’s not Sophie.
It’s my mom.
Something’s wrong.
“Ma? What’s going on?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Her sob cuts through me like a skate blade to the heart. “Liam...someone broke in. The apartment... It’s...” She chokes back another sob. “Your sister’s spare cello...”
Ice floods my veins, and suddenly I’m that scared fourteen-year-old kid again, getting the call about Dad’s accident. “Are you okay? Is Erin there? Are you hurt?”
“I just got home from my shift,” she manages between shaky breaths. “Someone wrecked the place… Erin’s not home yet.”
“Get out of there right now,” I order, already sprinting toward my car like I’m racing for a breakaway goal. “Call Erin. Go to Mrs. O’Reilly’s next door. Don’t touch anything. I’m on my way.”
“But you have practice tomorrow.”
Really, Ma? The apartment’s been ransacked, and you’re worried about practice?
“To hell with it. I’m in the city, and I’ll be there in half an hour, tops.” I slam my car door so hard the whole vehicle shakes, pressing the ignition button like I’m trying to murder it. “Call the police, then stay at Mrs. O’Reilly’s until I get there. You hear me, Ma?”
“Okay,” she whispers. Her shaky voice doesn’t sound like my strong, fierce, worked-three-jobs-to-buy-hockey-gear mother. She has never sounded small before.
“I’m on my way. Just...just hang tight.”
I end the call and peel out of the parking lot, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. The haze of Sophie’s hot body pressed against mine evaporates like ice in the summer sun, replaced by cold dread crawling its way up my spine.
Soon I’m barreling down Bedford Avenue. The gentrified heart of Williamsburg is beating strong, even at eleven at night. Hip twenty-somethings spill out of craft beer bars and artisanal coffee shops turned nightspots, looking like they just stepped out of an Instagram filter. The contrast with my childhood memories of this neighborhood hits hard. Before the hipsters invaded with their pour-over coffee and vintage record stores, it used to be all bodegas and family-owned shops.
Mom’s building is a prewar walkup wedged between a vegan bakery and what used to be Mr. Romano’s hardware store. It’s now a crystal healing center. The old brick facade looks exactly the same as it did when I was a kid.
I take the stairs two at a time to Mrs. O’Reilly’s fourth-floor apartment. The old elevator is still broken. Some things just don’t change.
Mom and Erin are huddled on our neighbor’s comfy couch, two uniformed cops standing over them with notepads. The sight of my baby sister’s fearful expression makes my gut constrict.
“Liam!” Mom jumps up, throwing her arms around me.
“I’ve got you, Ma,” I murmur, holding her shaking body tight. Over her shoulder, I catch Erin’s eye. She looks nothing like the confident musician from last week.
The cops finish taking statements, leaving us with a case number and the standard “we’ll be in touch.” Their faces say what they’re not telling us—this’ll probably get filed away with all the other breaking-and-entering cases that never get solved.
Finally, we’re cleared to go back into the apartment. As I step inside, my blood runs cold. Erin’s spare cello lies in pieces by the window, its neck snapped off, a clean and deliberate break. The bow’s been broken too, the horsehair strings cut into shreds.
Papers are scattered everywhere, but a few news clippings about the PEDs scandal catch my eye. It slowly dawns on me that this might be connected to the betting scheme.
Is this a warning?
“My sheet music,” Erin whispers, kneeling by her destroyed cello and picking up scattered papers. Her fingers hover over the pages—Albinoni, Dvo?ák, Shostakovich, the pieces she’d been practicing for upcoming auditions.
Holding a few sheets, she gasps.
“What is it?”
“These are not my markings.”
I lean in closer. Certain measures are highlighted.
“What do they mean?” An uneasy feeling is starting to take shape.
This was not a random break-in.
“Fortissimo means as loud as possible. Crescendo, growing louder. And con fuoco means with fire,” Erin says, looking at the sheet music, confused.
My jaw clenches so hard I can hear my teeth grinding.
I need to speak with Dmitri .
I take a few deep breaths as the vague feeling transforms into realization and certainty.
“How’s Dad?” I ask in an attempt to divert and turn to Mom to help her sweep up broken glass from the kitchen floor. “I haven’t spoken to him for a couple of days.”
“He’s...having a good week,” she tries to reassure me, but I catch the hesitation. “The new treatment at Brookdale seems to be helping with the tremors. The doctors think a few more weeks of intensive physical therapy might do the trick.”
“I hope so. But in the meantime,” I straighten up, glass crunching under my boots. “Pack your bags. You two are staying with me until we figure this mess out.”
My mother shakes her head, that familiar stubborn set to her jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have an early shift tomorrow at Brooklyn Methodist.”
“Call in sick! Or take the train to work. Hell, I’ll drive you in the morning.”
“Out of the question, Liam. It’s a solid hour and a half commute on the train on a good day, even longer in the rush hour morning traffic. My shift starts at seven. You have practice and I won’t put you through that. And people are counting on me to show up.” She squares her shoulders, every inch the nurse who raised three kids on her own after Dad’s accident. “My patients need me.”
“And I need you safe!” The words explode out of me louder than I intended. “You don’t have to keep working like this. I make enough?—”
“Stop.” Her voice could freeze hell over. “We’ve talked about this many times before. You paying for your father’s care and Kieran’s and Erin’s tuition is more than enough.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’m not going to be a burden to my children. ”
“You could never be a burden!”
“I won’t be dependent on my son!” she snaps back. “I’m only in my mid-fifties and in excellent health.” She softens and extends her hand to caress my cheek before continuing. “Honey, you’ve done so much already. The special neurological program your father’s getting at Brookdale is giving him a real chance at improving his mobility. The treatments for the nerve damage from when he was trapped are finally making a difference. The doctors think with more physical therapy, he might even get some function back in his left side.”
“Which is exactly why you should let me?—”
“Let you what?” she cuts me off. “Support all of us? You’re already carrying too much on those shoulders, Mr. Big Shot.” Her voice turns into a whisper, “I’m still your mother. Let me keep my dignity.” She sweeps up broken glass, then pivots. “Have you talked to Kieran?” That’s classic Mom—world falling apart, and she’s worried about her children first. “He has a big game against Minnesota tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I texted him earlier,” I say, gathering Erin’s sheet music into a pile. My little brother followed in my skate tracks at Boston University. Kid’s already making waves—faster than I was at his age, and with better hands. Scouts are starting to notice. “Coach Parker thinks they’ve got a real shot at the NCAA championship tournament this year. BU hasn’t made it to the Frozen Four since I was there destroying scoring records.”
Mom’s eyes light up the way they always do when she talks about her boys on the ice. “Did you see him score three goals against Boston College last week?”
“Streamed it between periods.” I can’t help grinning, remembering how Kieran celebrated his game-winning goal, pretending his glove was a phone and miming ‘call me’ to the crowd. Little shit’s got swagger, I’ll give him that. “Kid’s gonna be better than me one of these days.”
“Your brother pulls off a hat trick against our biggest rival, and all you can say is ‘gonna be better than me’?” Mom teases, but I can see the pride shining in her eyes. Nothing makes her happier than her boys following in each other’s skate tracks.
“He already has your scoring record at Boston University in his sights,” Mom says proudly. Then her smile falters as she looks around the trashed apartment. “Don’t tell him about this. He has enough pressure with finals and hockey. I don’t want him distracted.”
“I’ll buy you a new cello,” I tell Erin, who’s kneeling by her broken instrument. “Top of the line. Whatever you need?—”
“Don’t.” She cuts me off, that familiar O’Connor stubbornness flashing in her eyes. “I’ll sort it out myself.”
“Erin-”
“You do enough, Liam.” Her chin lifts in that way that means the discussion is over. “Let me handle this one.”
“Ma,” I try again, switching tactics, “at least let me get you two a hotel room tonight. The Williamsburg Hotel’s right around the corner?—”
“No.” Her voice has that steel edge that means the discussion is over. “I have an early shift, and Erin has class. We’re not letting some thugs run us out of our home.”
“Kieran’s going to find out anyway,” Erin pipes up from where she’s still hunkering over her ruined cello as if she could magically put it back together. “You know how the hockey bros gossip. Someone’s cousin’s roommate’s girlfriend will post about the break-in, and it’ll make its way through the BU locker room faster than mono. ”
I wince. She’s not wrong. “He’ll kill me if he finds out from someone else.”
Mom sighs That sound that means she knows she’s beat. “Fine. But let me tell him. After his game tomorrow.” She looks at me pointedly. “And don’t you dare try to drive up to Boston to check on him. I’ve got enough to worry about without both my boys getting into trouble.”
“I’ll call him,” I say, pulling out my phone.
Mom snatches it from my hand with the kind of speed that reminds me where Kieran and I got our reflexes. “After his game,” she repeats firmly. “Let him concentrate. You remember what it’s like, playoffs coming up, scouts in the stands...”
I do remember. The pressure, the expectations, the weight of a family’s hopes riding on every shift. But I also remember what it feels like to shoulder that weight alone.
I’m not letting Kieran do that. Not when there are what appears to be Russian mobsters sending warnings through our family’s apartment.
But Mom’s right about one thing—tomorrow is soon enough. This shit storm will still be here.
“Fine,” I growl, pulling her into a hug. “But I’m staying tonight, and I’m installing a security system first thing tomorrow. No arguments.”
She pats my cheek, and for a second, I’m eight years old again, coming home with scraped knees from street hockey. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, dear.”
I help Mom and Erin clean up for a while longer, gathering sheet music and sweeping up glass until the numbers on my phone blur into nonsense. It’s pushing two. Practice starts in less than eight hours, and Coach isn’t exactly known for his sympathy toward players who show up dragging. Tomorrow, I’ll be mainlining espresso shots like they’re going extinct. Between the Russian mob, the lack of sleep, and Coach’s infamous drills, I’ll need all the help I can get.
I head to what used to be my room, now transformed into Mom’s meditation space. My old Rangers posters and hockey trophies have made way for Tibetan tapestries and a Himalayan salt lamp that bathes the room in a soft pink glow. The familiar scent of sandalwood incense lingers in the air—the same kind Mom used to burn when she first taught me about mindfulness and visualization.
Home sweet Zen.
The bed’s still here, though now it’s layered with meditation cushions in soothing shades of purple and blue. I smile at the “Breathe” pillow propped against the headboard, Mom’s gentle reminder that sometimes the simplest solutions are the best ones.
Erin follows me in, perching on the windowsill while I flop onto the bed, sending a decorative pillow with “Namaste” embroidered on it flying to the floor. She catches it with the kind of reflexes that remind me she grew up dodging hockey pucks on the playground.
“You’re calling Kieran now?” she whispers as she sees me pulling out my phone, hugging the pillow to her chest. “You promised we’d wait until after his game.”
“No, not Kieran. Dimitri,” I say as I’m pulling out his number. “A teammate. He’ll know something.”
She watches me intently with questions in her eyes.
The phone rings four times before a groggy “ Da ?” answers.
“Sokolov. I need you awake for this.”
“O’Connor?” He sounds like he’s trying to remember how to speak English. “What time is it? Am I late for practice? ”
“It’s two a.m. And it’s much worse than that, Dima. I think the Mafia goons that were crowding you a while back broke into my mother’s place.”
The sound of rustling sheets, then suddenly he’s alert. “What?”
Erin gasps, her eyes widening like saucers. I put a finger to my mouth, gesturing for her to stay silent.
I put the call on speaker and run through it—the destroyed cello, the highlighted sheet music, the scattered papers. With each detail, Dmitri’s breath gets sharper.
“ Blyad ,” he mutters, then switches to rapid-fire Russian that doesn’t sound like poetry.
“English, Dima. Some of us didn’t grow up with Dostojewski.”
“This is Volkov’s signature,” Dmitri says, all traces of sleep gone. “The precision, the psychological element—exactly his style.”
“How sure are you?” I sit up straighter, as Erin comes closer and sits down on my bed.
“Remember that friend I mentioned? The one who’s good with numbers?”
“Your forensic accountant buddy?”
“ Da . He works for one of the big banks now, in their fraud detection unit. Been monitoring suspicious betting patterns since the PEDs scandal broke.” There’s rustling on his end, like he’s getting out of bed. “Found a series of offshore accounts, shell companies, all showing massive bets against us after the scandal hit the news.”
“That could be anyone with half a brain and Google, Dima.”
“Yes, but...” He mumbles something in Russian, conceivably a curse, then catches himself. “Important part is that these accounts follow the same patterns we saw back in Russia when Volkov tried this with my old team. Same shell companies, same payment structures.”
“And this connects to Volkov how?”
“Bank’s fraud detection software picked up similar patterns from when he pulled this shit in the Russian hockey league. Not enough for court, but...”
“But enough to know it’s him.”
“ Da. And now this break-in? This is escalation. He’s worried about something.”
I glance at Erin, sitting cross legged on my bed. “About what?”
“You and Sophie, I think. Good PR is bad for his plan. Happy hockey captain in love doesn’t fit narrative of team in crisis.”
My jaw clenches. “So, what’s our play?”
“Let me make more calls. My friend, he’s building a case. Following money trails. Digital breadcrumbs. But Liam?”
“Yeah?”
“These people, they’re not fourth-line goons you can drop gloves with. They make problems disappear silently. Permanently.”
I think of Sophie, of Mom, of Erin’s destroyed cello. “Yeah? Well, maybe it’s time someone made them disappear.”
“ Blyad ,” Dmitri mutters. “Just give me twenty-four hours. And Liam?”
“What?”
“Your girl, Sophie. Keep her away until this is settled.”
The suggestion hits like a blindside check, but he’s right. I can’t drag her into this mess.
“Yeah,” I say through clenched teeth, looking at Erin. “I know.”