The Pucking Player

30. Playing the Bad Guy

30

PLAYING THE BAD GUY

LIAM

M ike O’Malley’s number is still in my favorites, right between Mom and Kieran. Every muscle in my body screams as I reach for the phone, courtesy of Coach Novak’s special brand of torture disguised as “conditioning” over the past few days.

Suicide sprints, wall-sits, Bulgarian lunges. The whole team watching as their captain gasps for air, legs burning, lungs on fire. Even Finn stopped trying to intervene. At some point, I was puking while Coach just stood there, arms crossed, a cold smile never leaving his face. And then when I stopped puking, that even, revengeful voice.

“Again.”

Then the extra stick work drills until my shoulders felt like they might detach. Real subtle, that man.

“This better be good, O’Connor,” Mike growls when he picks up. “Some of us work normal hours.”

I shift in my chair, wincing as my quads spasm. Even my bruises have bruises. “When have you ever been normal, Detective? ”

“Since I got promoted to Organized Crime.” He yawns. “Unlike some people who still play with sticks for a living.”

Classic Mike. We’ve been trading insults since PS 380, back when he was the scrawny kid who couldn’t skate and I was the loudmouth who couldn’t shut up about the Defenders.

Now he’s Brooklyn PD’s rising star, and I’m...well, still a loudmouth who can’t shut up about the Defenders. Though after yesterday’s practice, talking itself feels like an Olympic sport. Coach made sure every player knew exactly why their captain was being run into the ground. Nothing like public humiliation with a side of physical exhaustion to really drive home a father’s disapproval.

“You hear about the break-in at my mom’s place?”

“Yeah, crossed my desk.” His voice sharpens. “Was planning to call her today to check in with her. Weird case. Nothing stolen, but specific damage. Almost like?—”

“Like someone was sending a warning?”

Silence. Then, “Talk to me.”

I lay it out—the PEDs scandal, the betting patterns, Dmitri’s connection to Volkov, the destroyed cello, the highlighted sheet music. By the time I finish, Mike’s fully awake.

“Jesus, Li. Why didn’t you come to me right away?”

“Didn’t want to drag you in unless I had to.” I pace my living room, restless energy burning through me. “But they are going after my family now.”

“And you’re thinking of doing something stupid.”

“You know me all too well.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m worried.” He sighs. “Look, we’ve been building a case on Volkov for months. Money laundering, racketeering, the works. But this guy’s smart.”

“Until now,” I point out. “Going after my family is reckless. ”

“More like deliberate, my friend.” Mike’s voice has that tone he gets when pieces are clicking together. “What if he’s trying to provoke you? Get you to do something unsavory? So that you would look bad in the press again?”

“Maybe.” I stop pacing. “So, what’s the play?”

“Give me forty-eight hours. My CI says Volkov’s getting pressure from higher up. The old guard in Moscow isn’t happy about him playing games with American sports. He’s desperate to make this betting scheme work.”

“And?”

“And desperate men make mistakes. We’ve got surveillance on his club in Brighton Beach. Wire taps on his phones—the ones we know about. If you confront him...”

“He might slip up.” The idea takes shape. “Say something incriminating.”

“Exactly. But Liam?” Mike’s voice turns serious. “This isn’t a game. These guys play for keeps.”

“Good.” I think of Mom’s shaking hands and Erin’s tears. Of Sophie’s smile that I haven’t seen in days. My promise to her that I wouldn’t bolt, and me doing exactly that. “So do I.”

“Christ.” Mike mutters something that sounds like a prayer. “I’m serious, Li. We need to do this my way. No cowboy shit.”

“When have I ever?—”

“Third grade. Jimmy Antonelli’s lunch money.”

“That was one time! We were nine!”

“Sixth grade. Sarah Mitchell.”

“She said she liked my poem!”

Not my fault her boyfriend took offense to my cafeteria poetry reading.

“Senior year. The entire lacrosse team.”

“They started it! ”

Still, no one knows where that blue Jello came from, and I’m taking that secret to my grave.

“Face it, Li. You’ve got a history of letting your heart override your brain.” He sighs again. “Let me set this up right. No showing up at his place throwing punches. We need him thinking he’s got you running scared.”

“I can do that.”

“Sure, you can, tough guy.” But there’s affection in his voice. “Give me till Friday. And Liam?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep your head down till then. Stay away from the girl you’ve been romancing unless you want her to get pulled into it as well. Though I saw in the press that there is another one in play now. Stay away from her too.”

I think of what Sophie must have thought—and felt—when she saw the photos of me with Olivia, part of Dimitri’s plan to make Volkov think I’m done with Sophie.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “No funny business with any girl.”

After hanging up with Mike, I hit Dmitri’s number. He picks up on the first ring.

“I spoke to my friend on the force,” I tell him. “He’s got a plan.”

“Your friend knows what he’s dealing with?” Dmitri’s accent is thick with concern.

“Let’s talk after practice. We need to focus.”

“That so?” He chuckles darkly. “Noticed you’re trending on social media again, by the way. With the singer.”

“All part of our plan.” My chest tightens thinking about Sophie seeing those photos. “Meet me in the weight room after skate?”

“ Da . And Liam?”

“Yeah? ”

“Whatever your friend’s plan is...I hope it’s worth what you’re doing to that girl.”

Me too, Dima. Me too.

I end the call and stare at my reflection in the bedroom window. Time to get my game face on. The one that says I’m still that guy—the player, the heartbreaker, the bad boy of hockey who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.

Convincing enough to fool the Russian mob.

Too bad it’s also convincing enough to break Sophie’s heart.

I grab my jacket and head for the Defenders’ complex. Hurricane Jessica awaits me—her early morning text practically radiated fury through my phone screen. Something tells me she’s been up since four, channeling her rage into an ungodly number of deadlifts while plotting my demise. Nothing fuels a PR pro like pure, unbridled wrath toward your baby sister’s maybe-boyfriend.

Can’t say I blame her. If someone pulled this shit with my sister Erin, they’d need dental records to identify the body. Though at least I wouldn’t wake them up at ass o’clock in the morning to tell them so.

Pretty sure Jessica’s already broken three personal records this morning, all while imagining my face on the weight plates.

When I reach her office, Jessica’s radiating enough fury to power a small city. She’s pacing like a caged tiger in four-inch heels, which is both terrifying and impressive. Who knew someone could look ready to commit murder while wearing Alexander McQueen?

“Really, O’Connor? Olivia fucking Carrington?” She whirls on me, nostrils flaring. Her perfectly manicured finger jabs into my chest. “The pop star ? What’s next, a midnight rendezvous with the entire Dallas Cowboys cheerleading squad? Maybe a steamy photoshoot with the US women’s volleyball team?”

“Come on, Jess.” I flash my most charming grin, the one that usually gets me out of penalty minutes. “You know me better than that. I have standards.” I pause for dramatic effect. “I’d never go for the whole squad. Just the fliers. They’re more...flexible.”

The stress ball rockets past my left ear at deadly speed. I dodge, laughing, but the stapler that follows comes dangerously close to ensuring the O’Connor family line ends with me.

“This isn’t funny, you walking PR nightmare!” Her eye twitches—never a good sign. “Do you have any idea what Sophie?—”

Note to self: maybe antagonizing the woman who controls my public image while she’s within throwing distance of office supplies isn’t my smartest play.

The door swings open and Finn strides in, already suited up for practice. He stops short at the sight of Jessica spouting flames, his usual swagger faltering for a microsecond before kicking back in at full force.

“Jessica.” His voice drops an octave, going all warm and suggestive. “Just the person I needed to see.”

Jessica’s cheeks flush pink as she smooths her already perfect hair. “Oh? And what could be so urgent?”

“Team photo got rescheduled. Need your sign-off on the new time slot.” Finn produces a folder from behind his back, but his eyes never leave her face. “Though now I’m thinking the timing worked out perfectly, walking in on O’Connor’s latest circus.”

“Speaking of circuses,” Jessica says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Shouldn’t you be heading back for warm-up? ”

“Probably.” Finn’s smile could melt ice. “But I’m enjoying the view right where I am.”

Jessica bites her lip, and something electric crackles between them.

“The, um, photo approval,” she gestures vaguely at the folder in his hand.

“Right.” Finn hands her the folder, lingering very close to her. “Let me know if you need anything else. I mean, for the team photo. Or...whatever.”

They’re locked in some kind of heated staring contest that makes me feel like I’m intruding.

Christ, the sexual tension in here is thicker than playoff beard season.

“Thanks,” Jessica manages, her voice barely above a whisper.

Finn backs away slowly, his eyes still on her. “See you around, Jess.”

He shoots me a look that clearly says “not a word” before sauntering out. Jessica stares after him for a beat too long before remembering she’s supposed to be mad at me.

“Don’t think I forgot about you, O’Connor.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I smirk. “Though I notice you’re not wearing your ‘murder Liam’ face anymore. Amazing what a little quality time with Finn does for your mood. I should bring him by more often. I just wish he had the same effect on your dad.”

This time the stress ball connects with my forehead.

But it was worth it.

Jessica plucks the stress ball off the ground, her playful mood evaporating like ice in August. She perches on the edge of her desk, tapping nails against the wood. The sound drills into my skull like a penalty shot countdown.

“Cut the crap, O’Connor. What game are you playing? ”

“No game.” I lean against the wall, aiming for casual. Missing by a mile.

“Really? Because I stuck my neck out for you. Convinced my sister—my baby sister—to give you a chance. Told Dad you weren’t the player everyone said you were.” Her voice turns sharp as a skate blade. “And look at you now.”

My chest tightens. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh? Because what I think is that Sophie is a mess. What I think is that my sister, who never cries over guys, spent the last few days demolishing pints of Ben & Jerry’s while watching rom-coms.”

Fuck.

“Which ones?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.

Jessica’s eyes narrow. “That’s what you took from that? God, you really are a piece of work.”

“Look, Jess?—”

“No, you look.” She stands, closing the distance between us. In her heels, she’s only a few inches shorter than me, quite impressive for a girl. And she manages to loom. “Sophie trusted you. I trusted you. Hell, I went to bat for you with Dad. And this is what you do? Well, I say, good riddance.”

Each word lands like a body check. Because she’s right, I’m destroying quite a lot to protect Sophie. Breaking promises I meant to keep.

“How’s she doing?” I hate how rough my voice sounds. How desperate. “Besides the ice cream and rom-coms?”

“Why do you care?” Jessica crosses her arms. “Shouldn’t you be too busy with your pop star to worry about the girl whose heart you’re smashing?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always with you?” She shakes her head, disappointment radiating off her. “You know what the worst part is? I actually believed you were different. That all those stories about the ‘Bad Boy of Hockey’ were bull.”

I force a smirk, even though each word feels like swallowing glass. “Maybe you shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

“Get out of my office,” Jessica hisses and turns away, shoulders rigid. “And stay away from Sophie. She got into Stanford, and I don’t want you getting all mixed in now. She deserves better than a meandering philanderer like yourself.”

Ouch.

I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. “For what it’s worth, Jess? I never meant to hurt her.”

“Yeah, well.” Her voice is quiet. “You did a pretty shit job of that, didn’t you?”

The door clicks shut behind me, but her words follow me down the hallway. Because she’s right, I am hurting Sophie. Breaking her heart to keep her safe.

Some hero.