The Pucking Player

33. The Son’s Gambit

33

THE SON’S GAMBIT

LIAM

“ H old still,” Mike mutters, carefully taping the wire to my chest. We’re in the back of an unmarked surveillance van, getting ready to walk into what’s either the stupidest or bravest thing I’ve ever done. And considering I once tried to sneak a puppy into the team locker room, that’s saying something.

“The mic is sensitive,” the tech guy explains, adjusting something that looks intricate. “Just talk normally. No need to project.”

Next to me, Dmitri’s already wired up, looking annoyingly Zen about the whole thing, as if he’s done this before.

Mike paces the cramped space, running through the plan again. “Remember, we’ve got eyes on all exits. Two plainclothes officers inside. If things go south, say ‘nice weather we’re having’ and we’re in there in thirty seconds.”

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s our code phrase? What if Volkov actually wants to discuss the weather?”

“Then you’re screwed,” Mike deadpans. “Any other stupid questions?”

“Yeah. Why does Dmitri look so calm about this? ”

“Because I am Russian,” Dmitri says serenely. “In St. Petersburg, this is like a regular Tuesday.”

The tech guy snorts, then quickly pretends to be very interested in his equipment when Mike glares at him.

“Listen,” Mike’s voice turns serious. “Get him talking about the PEDs. About Martinez. About the betting. But don’t push too hard. These guys smell desperation.”

“No desperation here,” I say, trying to ignore how my heart’s doing overtime. “Just a friendly chat between a hockey player and the mobster trying to ruin his life. Totally casual.”

“Christ.” Mike rubs his face. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you love me?” I grin at him.

“Because you’re too stupid to live without supervision.” He checks his watch. “Alright, showtime. Remember, ‘nice weather we’re having.’”

As we climb out of the van, Mike grabs my arm. “Hey. Be careful in there, Li. I’m not explaining to Sophie why her boyfriend got himself killed playing hero.”

It’s time to face the Russian mob. Just your regular Tuesday in Brooklyn, New York.

The entrance to Volkov’s club looks exactly like what you’d expect from a Russian Bratva front—gleaming chrome and red velvet, with a bouncer who could probably bench press my car. He’s got hands like catcher’s mitts and a face that suggests he eats defensive linemen for breakfast.

Dmitri steps forward, rattling off something in Russian that sounds either like “we’re here to see your boss” or “your mother was a hamster.”

Whatever he said, it works. The bouncer’s expression shifts from “I will end you” to merely “I might end you,” and he steps aside.

Inside, crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, catching light that turns everything a deep, bloody red. The air smells like expensive cigars and questionable life choices. On stage, dancers who definitely didn’t learn those moves in ballet class writhe to some bass-heavy Russian pop song.

“This way,” Dmitri mutters, steering us toward the bar, which is a masterpiece of excess—black marble and gold accents, bottles of liquor lined up like soldiers. The bartender eyes us as we approach, his sleeve garters screaming “I take my cocktails very seriously.”

Dmitri orders something in Russian.

“What did you get us?” I ask as the bartender pours what looks like liquid diamonds into crystal glasses.

“The good stuff,” he says, then adds something else in Russian, gesturing at me. The bartender’s eyes narrow, then dart to a spot above our heads before he nods and disappears through a door behind the bar.

“Told him we’re players for the Defenders,” Dmitri explains, sipping his vodka. “That we want to discuss business with Volkov.”

“And?”

“And now we wait. Try not to look like you’re wearing a wire.”

“Any other helpful advice?”

“Yes.” He takes another sip. “Don’t die. It would really mess up our power play unit.”

A short while later, a guy in a sharp black suit appears, beckoning us to follow. He leads us up a staircase hidden behind a door marked “Private,” and past another bouncer who could moonlight as a brick wall. The whole setup screams “people who come up here don’t always come back down.”

Volkov’s office is exactly what you’d picture for a guy who probably has “Professional Bad Guy” printed on his business cards. Dark wood paneling, expensive leather furniture, and a view of Downtown Manhattan that would make any real estate agent weep. Behind his massive desk, Volkov looks like he stepped out of a Bond villain casting call—perfectly tailored suit, steel-gray hair, and the kind of smile that nudges you to check your drink for poison.

“Ah, the hockey players,” he says in accented English, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit. I hear you wish to discuss...business.”

I take a seat, hyper-aware of the wire against my chest and the mountain of muscle standing guard at the door. Dmitri settles next to me, somehow managing to look both relaxed and alert.

“Mr. Volkov,” Dmitri starts, his voice carefully neutral. “We appreciate you taking the time to meet with us.”

“Of course, of course. How can I help New York’s finest athletes?” But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Someone broke into my family’s place recently,” I say, keeping my voice even as best I can manage. “My mom’s pretty shaken up. Here’s the weird thing though…nothing was taken.”

Volkov’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. “This is New York. Crime happens.”

“Yeah, funny timing though.” I straighten in my seat. “Right after all these betting rumors started flying around. After Martinez got caught with the PEDs.”

“Who’s Martinez?” His expression is deadpan.

“The man who planted the PEDs in our lockers.”

“Are you implying something, Mr. O’Connor?”

I lean back casually. “Not implying anything. Just thinking maybe there’s a way to make sure my family stays safe. Maybe a way we could...help each other out. ”

“Help each other?” Volkov steeples his fingers. “And how exactly would that work?”

“We’ve heard rumors,” Dmitri interjects smoothly. “About certain…opportunities for players who are willing to be…cooperative.”

Time to dangle the bait. “Let’s just say we’re open to discussing game management. “

Something flashes in Volkov’s eyes. But he doesn’t bite.

“Interesting.” Volkov leans back. “And what makes you think I would know anything about such management?”

“We understand you’re a businessman,” Dmitri states point blank, leaving the thought unfinished.

Volkov smiles, all shark teeth and warning signs. “I am a businessman indeed. A legitimate, above-board businessman. If your family is having...difficulties, perhaps you should speak with police.”

The irony of that statement could power a small city.

We dance around it for another ten minutes, Dmitri dropping hints like anvils, me trying not to look as wired as I actually am, Volkov playing dumb like it’s an Olympic sport. But it’s clear he’s not biting.

“Thank you for stopping by,” he finally says, standing up. Classic dismissal. “I hope your family situation…resolves itself.”

The threat in those words isn’t even subtle.

Outside his office, Dmitri mutters something in Russian that doesn’t sound complimentary.

“That was a waste of time,” I growl, heading for the exit. “Let’s?—”

“Gentlemen.” A voice stops us near the door. Sharp suit, sharp features, sharp smile. One of Volkov’s guys, but not one we saw upstairs. “A moment of your time? ”

I glance at Dmitri. His face gives away nothing, but there’s tension in his shoulders.

“This way, please.” Sharp Suit gestures to a door I hadn’t noticed before. Not exactly a request.

Great. Either we’re about to get our big break, or we’re about to get broken. Might be a good time to mention the weather.

“After you.” The guy smiles, holding a door open that leads to what looks like a high-end sports bar crossed with a billionaire’s man cave. Signed jerseys line the walls—not just hockey, but soccer, basketball, everything. And right in the center, displayed like the Holy Grail itself, is a Defenders jersey.

My jersey.

“This is like the Twilight Zone.” Dmitri murmurs beside me. Then louder, “Impressive collection.”

“My pride and joy.” A voice comes from the corner where a guy about my age sits in a leather armchair, Xbox controller in hand, a video game paused on the massive screen in front of him. He’s got Volkov’s steel-gray eyes but softer features and is wearing a designer hoodie instead of a suit. “Though I have to say, your new goal celebration needs work, O’Connor.”

My game character stands frozen on screen, mid-celly, right hand touching left wrist before the trademark point skyward.

The exact spot where I wrote my number on her arm.

“Some celebrations mean more than others,” I say warily, watching his reaction.

“Andrei Volkov,” he says, standing. “Big fan. Even if you did crush CSKA Moscow in the exhibition game last year.”

Well, this just got interesting .

Dmitri and I exchange bewildered glances. “You follow European hockey?” I ask carefully.

“Follow it?” He grins, gesturing to a wall of framed tickets. “I lived it. Played juniors for CSKA until father decided business school was more important than hockey dreams.”

There’s an edge to those words sharp enough to cut.

“Must have been disappointing.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He drops back into his chair, waving us to the nearby couch. “But hey, at least I got a fancy MBA and a corner office running Daddy’s businesses.” The sarcasm could strip paint. “The legitimate ones,” he adds after a pointed pause.

Dmitri and I exchange looks again. This is either the best break we could get, or we’re about to end up at the bottom of the East River.

“Speaking of business,” I start.

“You mean the PEDs and the betting? The whole ‘destroy the Defenders from the inside’ master plan?” Andrei’s voice is casual, but his eyes are anything but. “Yeah, I know all about it.”

My pulse kicks up. “And?”

“And I’ve been gathering evidence for months.” He pulls out a laptop, fingers flying over the keys. “Bank transfers. Shell companies. Recorded conversations. Everything you need to take him down.”

“Why would you help us?” Dmitri asks the million-dollar question.

Andrei’s face hardens. “Because he doesn’t just want to control the betting. He wants to own the whole league. Start with one team, then another. Until hockey’s just another business asset in his portfolio.” His voice cracks slightly. “This game deserves better than that.”

Holy shit .

“You’ll help the cops get to your own father?” I can’t help asking.

“He stopped being my father the day he told me hockey was beneath our family’s dignity.” Andrei’s smile is all edges. “Funny how things work out, isn’t it? He made me learn business instead of hockey, and now I’m using that business knowledge to take him down.”

He turns the laptop toward us. “Everything’s here. Account numbers, dates, names. Even Martinez’s full confession—turns out fear of the Russian Bratva is a great motivator for keeping records.”

“Why give this to us?” I ask, suspicious.

“Because,” He glances at the Defenders jersey on the wall, “some things are more important than family loyalty. Like protecting the game we love.”

My phone buzzes. A text from Mike:

[Mike]: Got everything. Units moving in.

“Your father’s men—” I start.

“Are busy dealing with a ‘situation’ at our warehouse in Queens.” Andrei’s grin turns wicked.

Sirens wail outside. Footsteps thunder up the stairs.

“You should leave now,” Andrei says calmly, closing his laptop. “Back exit through there. I’d rather not explain to father how I helped take him down. At least not until he’s in handcuffs.”

“You’ll testify?”

“Better.” He tosses me a thumb drive. “I’ll provide documented evidence. Much harder to argue with paper trails than witness statements. ”

As Dmitri and I head for the exit, I turn back. “That goal celebration? The celly you said needs work?”

“Yeah?”

“Watch Friday’s game. I’ve got something special planned.”

His laugh follows us down the back stairs. “Make it good, O’Connor. I’ll be watching from the family box, might be my last chance before father disowns me.”

“You’ll have season tickets in perpetuity from now on. We’ll make sure of it.”

Outside, Mike’s waiting by the van, looking like he’s aged ten years. “You two are either the luckiest sons of bitches alive, or the dumbest. I haven’t decided which.”

“Why not both?” Dmitri suggests cheerfully.

I hand Mike the thumb drive, my mind racing ahead. To tomorrow’s game and to Sophie. But first, it’s time to pay her a visit.