The Pucking Player

32. Ice Baths and Russian Mobsters

32

ICE BATHS AND RUSSIAN MOBSTERS

LIAM

M y alarm chirps at six-thirty a.m., and I lay still for a moment, letting myself drift in that space between sleep and wakefulness. This is where the magic happens—the alpha state, where the mind is at its most moldable. Where champions are made.

Where I figure out how to get Sophie back.

You know, the little things.

I settle into my meditation spot by the window, crossing my legs on the floor. Tarrytown’s still asleep for the most part, a perfect canvas for focusing my energy. This practice has become my secret weapon these past few weeks. An hour of deep breathing and activating energy centers in my body is what’s keeping me alive through Coach Novak’s special brand of hell. I visualize roots growing from my feet, deep into the earth’s core, drawing up power. Regenerative and survival energy. The kind you need when your girlfriend’s— ex-girlfriend’s father is trying to murder you via suicide drills.

As painful as it is, the old man’s rage—pushing me to my absolute limits—is turning me into a hockey-playing superhero. Who knew getting your ass handed to you on the daily could be this effective?

By nine, I’m at the gym and already on my third set of resistance band core work when Dmitri strolls in, looking way too energetic for someone who has a six-year-old to drop off every morning before practice. He watches me struggle through Russian twists with the band anchored behind me, probably composing a sonnet about my suffering.

“Still not enough punishment, Captain?” He settles onto the mat next to me, pulling out his own resistance bands. “Coach Novak’s daily beatings not satisfying?”

I release the band, letting myself collapse onto the mat. “At least I’m channeling cosmic energy instead of memorizing sonnets, Wordsworth.”

“Pushkin,” he corrects, smirking as he checks his phone—probably another photo from his nanny of little Amneris’s latest artistic creation on his kitchen walls. “Poetry feeds the soul just as good as meditation. Even my daughter knows this.”

“Yeah?” I grab my foam roller, attacking a particularly angry knot in my quad. “Write any poems about getting your ass kicked in practice lately? Or just about princesses and opera plots?”

He grins that cryptic Russian smile while flowing through a mobility sequence that makes my joints ache just watching. “Ris prefers Carmen to princesses. Takes after her mama.” A flash of something crosses his face—the same look he gets whenever something reminds him of Elena—but it’s gone in an instant. “At least your performance is improving. Last game? Three goals, two assists. Coach’s torture is effective.”

“Yeah, well,” I switch to my other leg, wincing. “If heartbreak and endless conditioning are what it takes to win the Cup, sign me up.”

My phone buzzes in my gym bag. I fish it out, expecting another passive-aggressive text from Coach about proper foam rolling technique or whatever else I’m doing wrong today. Instead, it’s Mike.

Got something. Meet me at O’Malley’s at two.

I show the text to Dmitri, whose eyebrows shoot up mid-plank.

“Your police friend?” he asks, not even breathing hard.

Show off.

“The one looking into Volkov?”

I nod, already plotting our next few hours. “Want to come with me to meet him after practice? Assuming I survive today’s torture, that is.”

“Some things are worth suffering for,” Dmitri chimes, transitioning smoothly into a series of dynamic stretches. “Justice. Love. Poetry.”

We finish our maintenance work with the comfortable rhythm of longtime teammates. Medicine ball throws, mobility work, band-assisted power moves—the kind of smart training that keeps us game-ready without burning out. The gym slowly fills with other players, all of us moving through our morning routines.

By ten, we’re on the ice, and Coach Novak is in rare form.

“Again!” he barks as I complete my fifteenth suicide drill. “My grandmother skates faster than that, O’Connor, and she’s been dead for forty years!”

Sweat drips down my back as I push through another sprint. The rest of the team’s running passing drills, but not me. No, I get special treatment. Personal attention from Coach himself .

Lucky me.

“You call that skating?” Coach’s voice echoes across the ice. “My hamster has more speed!”

I bite back a retort. Silence is golden. I don’t think any comeback from me would help my situation.

“Twenty more!” Coach bellows. “And this time, pretend like you actually want to play hockey!”

By eleven-thirty, I’ve survived practice and am dragging myself to the training room. My legs feel like they’ve been through a wood chipper, courtesy of Coach’s “special” drills.

“Twenty minutes in the cold tub,” our trainer Dave orders, not even looking up from his clipboard. “No arguments, O’Connor.”

I eye the tub of ice water like it’s personally offended me. Next to me, Dmitri’s already stripping down to his compression shorts, probably mentally composing an ode to hydrotherapy or some shit.

“I hate you and your perfect form,” I mutter as we lower ourselves into separate tubs.

“Such hostility.” He doesn’t even have the decency to shiver. “Perhaps you should channel that energy into your edge work instead of cursing my superior Russian genetics.”

“Perhaps you should channel your superior Russian genetics into shutting the fuck up.”

Dave walks by, checking his watch. “Eighteen minutes left. Stop whining.”

After the ice bath from hell, we hit the shower and grab the protein shakes waiting in our lockers. It’s almost one, giving me plenty of time to make my meeting with Mike.

“Are you coming with me?” I turn to him, and he nods. “We can grab food on our way,” I add, pulling on a sweater. “I refuse to face the Russian Bratva on an empty stomach.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re in my car, fighting midday traffic into Manhattan while we eat supersized roast beef sandwiches. We pull up to O’Malley’s right at two, finding a spot half a block away. The old Irish pub looks exactly like it has since we were kids—Mike and me playing street hockey outside while his dad tended the bar.

I pull open the door. “Let’s go see what Mike’s got.”

O’Malley’s at lunch is exactly what you’d expect from Williamsburg—a bizarre mix of tech bros hunched over laptops, artists who probably haven’t slept since Tuesday, and what I’m pretty sure is a guy writing the next great American novel on his typewriter. Yes, an actual typewriter.

Welcome to hipster Brooklyn.

Mike’s easy to spot. He’s the only guy in here who looks like he could actually arrest someone. Six-foot-one of pure intimidation in a leather jacket, dark eyes that have seen too much, and the kind of brooding expression that makes perps confess just to make it stop. Also, my best friend since we were kids.

He stands when he sees us, and we do that manly half-hug thing that guys do when they’re in public. “Li, my man. Been a minute.”

“Yeah, well, someone’s been busy becoming New York’s finest.”

Mike’s eyes flick to Dmitri. “You are our Russian connection Li’s been telling me about?”

“Dmitri Sokolov.” Dmitri extends his hand. “Thank you for meeting us.”

“Thanks for putting us in touch with your friend,” Mike says as we slide into the booth. “Guy’s a fucking genius with numbers. We’ve been tracking Volkov’s activity for weeks now, waiting for him to slip up.”

“Slip up how?” I lean forward, pulse picking up.

Mike takes a swig of his beer. “My guys are on him twenty-four-seven. He’s getting sloppy, frustrated that the team’s still performing despite the scandal. Making rookie mistakes with his shell companies, leaving paper trails. It’s just a matter of time at this point. We just need one solid piece of evidence connecting him directly to the PEDs or the betting.”

“How long are we talking here?” I ask, picking at the label on my water bottle. “Days? Weeks?”

Mike grimaces. “Could be months.”

“Months?” The plastic crinkles under my grip. “I can’t even text her, Mike. Can’t show up at her place. Meanwhile, she’s filling out Stanford paperwork and looking at apartments in California.”

“That’s rough, man.” Mike takes another pull of his beer. “But if we move on Volkov now, he walks. Maybe pays a fine, lawyers up, and we’re back to square one. That what you want?”

“I want my life back.” The words come out harder than I meant them to. “Team’s getting killed in the press, Coach’s trying to trade me while also trying to murder me one sprint at a time, and my girl...” I trail off, shaking my head.

“Li—”

“What am I supposed to do? Just let her go?”

Dmitri clears his throat. “Perhaps we accelerate the process.”

Mike’s eyes narrow. “What are you thinking?”

“What if we pay him a visit?” I blurt out, the idea taking shape. “Push his buttons a bit. Make him nervous.”

“Absolutely not.” Mike’s jaw clenches. “These aren’t your typical petty thieves, O’Connor. These guys don’t fight fair.”

“Neither does Coach Novak, and I’m still standing.”

“This isn’t a joke, man.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?” I meet his gaze. “Every day this drags on is another day Sophie thinks I pushed her away because I’m a sleazy jerk. Another day Coach runs me into the ground. Another day our team’s reputation takes a hit.”

Mike rubs his face. “Christ, you’re still the same stubborn bastard you were in high school.”

“Some things don’t change.”

“Getting yourself killed won’t help you get your girl back,” he points out.

“Neither will sitting around waiting for Volkov to fuck up.” I glance at Dmitri. “You in?”

He shrugs elegantly. “Someone needs to keep you from doing anything too stupid.”

Mike lets out a long breath. “You’re going to do this whether I help or not, aren’t you?”

“You know me too well.”

“Fine.” He leans in, voice dropping. “But we do it my way. With backup nearby. And if I say abort, you abort. No heroics, no improvising. Deal?”

I grin. “Look at you, all responsible and shit.”

“One of us has to be.”