Chapter 2
TWO
zane
The coffee I grabbed from a nearby deli tastes like crap, but I need the caffeine more than I need flavor right now.
I sit in a rented Honda Accord outside the Oakland Raptors’ practice facility, watching early morning joggers pass by on the sidewalk.
Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that their local hockey team is about to become the center of an FBI operation designed to bring down one of the most dangerous sports betting syndicates on the West Coast.
My phone buzzes with a text from Agent Morrison, my handler.
Meeting confirmed for 10 AM. Remember, you’re just a goalie coach. Nothing more.
Right. Just a goalie coach who happens to have extensive knowledge of the same illegal gambling operations that destroyed my playing career and nearly got me killed. Nothing suspicious about that at all.
I drain the rest of the coffee and check the time. Nine-forty-five. Almost showtime.
The practice facility is impressive, all glass and steel designed to project success and professionalism. I scan the parking lot, making a mental note of exit routes and surveillance positions. Old habits from my time in hiding die hard.
My knee twinges as I get out of the car, a permanent reminder of what happens when you cross people who don’t believe in second chances. The syndicate made sure my playing career ended brutally, and if they discover I’m working with the FBI now, that busted knee will be the least of my problems.
The lobby is pristine, with championship banners hanging from the ceiling and photos of current players lining the white walls. I recognize most of the faces from the files Morrison gave me, but my eyes linger on one photo.
Tate Barnes. Number 31. Oakland’s starting goaltender for the past four years.
The same Tate Barnes I held in my arms in a Vegas hotel room two years ago, before my world collapsed and I had to disappear like a fucking coward.
When Morrison first briefed me on this assignment, he mentioned Oakland was being targeted by the same syndicate that destroyed my life.
The irony was bitter enough. What he didn’t mention was that the team’s starting goalie was someone whose trust I’d already shattered when I was too scared and broken to stay and explain why I had to leave him.
Back then, I’d been hiding in Vegas for a few months after the syndicate’s “message” to my knee made it clear that my playing days were over.
They didn’t appreciate my attempts to cut ties and wanted to make me understand through immense pain what happens when you don’t uphold your end of a bargain.
So I spent my time jumping from hotel to hotel, paying cash, constantly looking over my shoulder.
That became my life when I found out that escaping the wrong people isn’t as simple as saying “go fuck yourself.”
The FBI found me eventually and offered me a choice that wasn’t really a choice. Cooperate with their investigation or face charges for my involvement in criminal operations I’d tried desperately to escape. Self-preservation won out over pride. It always does.
When I saw Tate at that bar that night, I recognized him immediately. A two-year Oakland player, young for a starter but already establishing himself as one of the league’s most promising goalies.
And for once, I wasn’t thinking about hockey or syndicates or the perpetual fear gnawing at my gut. I was thinking about how lost he looked, how something in his eyes called to the broken parts of me. For a few hours, I let myself forget that I was a marked man.
The connection we had that night was real.
More real than anything I’d felt in years, which made leaving even more devastating.
But I didn’t have a choice. When my phone rang at six in the morning with news that my former syndicate associates had tracked me to Vegas, I had almost no time to disappear before they found me.
Before they found him with me.
I chose his safety over an explanation. Not that he’d see it that way.
“Mr. Christensen?”
I turn and see a middle-aged woman in a blazer approaching from behind the reception desk. “I’m Patricia, Coach Enver’s assistant. He’s ready for you.”
“Lead the way.”
I follow her down a hallway lined with photos and trophies, my mind racing through the implications of this assignment.
Working with Tate Barnes was always going to be complicated, but I’d assumed I could maintain professional distance while I focused on identifying potential syndicate targets, gathered evidence of their operations, and stayed detached.
Now I realize how fucking stupid that assumption was.
She knocks on Coach Enver’s office door and he calls her in. I follow her into the room lined with whiteboards covered in plays and statistics. The desk in the center of the room is piled high with papers and folders. Two coffee cups sit on either side of the mess.
“I appreciate you taking this position on such short notice,” he says, gesturing for me to sit across from his desk after shaking my hand. “Barnes is a good kid, but something’s got him twisted up. He needs some help to work through it.”
“What’s your read on him?” I ask, pulling out a notebook.
“Mental. He’s got the physical tools, always has. But lately he’s hesitating on routine saves, second-guessing himself. Last night, he let in a goal that my grandmother could have stopped.”
I nod, making notes while my mind processes the information. Performance anxiety could be genuine, or it could be a sign that someone’s already gotten to him. The syndicate’s preferred method is psychological pressure before they move to direct threats. That’s how they started with me.
“Any external factors? Personal issues, financial concerns?”
“Nothing obvious. Good kid from a working-class family, close with his teammates. No girlfriend, but that’s not unusual for players his age.” Enver pauses, studying my face. “What’s your usual approach to this kind of situation?”
“Build trust first. I need to understand what’s driving the mental blocks before we work on technical issues on the ice.
” The lies come easily now, polished by years of playing a role that will hopefully keep me alive.
“Young goalies often struggle with the pressure of being the last line of defense. It can become overwhelming.”
“That’s what I figured. I have a meeting scheduled with the team in ten minutes. I’ll introduce you, then you can start getting a feel for the dynamics.”
Enver stands, and I follow his lead, my knee screaming as I stand. The hallway to the conference room feels longer than it should, each step bringing me closer to the confrontation I’ve been dreading ever since I found out about this assignment.
The conference room is already half full when we step inside.
Players walk in with the casual confidence that comes from being among the most elite athletes in the world.
I recognize faces from my research, half-expecting to see ghosts from Detroit.
Carter van Kleef, the captain who oozes leadership, Jack Larson, a.k.a The Ice King, Cam Foster, the hotshot winger with sharp eyes that don’t miss a damn thing on the ice, Ryan Keating, whose reputation for causing trouble preceded him when he came to Oakland.
And then Tate walks in.
He looks older than he did in Vegas, more filled out through the shoulders and chest. He should have the confidence that comes from four years as an NHL starter, but instead I see the same lost look that drew me to him that night.
He takes a seat near the back, not making eye contact with anyone. The flirtatious, vulnerable man I held in that hotel room is nowhere to be seen. This version of Tate Barnes is defensive, wrapped in layers of barbed wire that I’m pretty sure I helped create when I disappeared without explanation.
“Gentlemen,” Coach Enver begins, rapping his hand on the table. The guys quiet immediately. “I want to introduce Zane Christensen, our new coach. Zane comes to us with extensive experience working with professional goaltenders.”
I stand, forcing myself to project calm confidence while my heart pounds in my chest. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you. My focus will be primarily on goaltending technique and mental preparation, but I’ll be observing team dynamics as well.”
My eyes sweep the room, carefully avoiding direct contact with Tate until the very end. When my gaze finally lands on him, I fight the urge to recoil. His hazel eyes swirl with barely contained fury mixed with hurt that cuts deep.
He recognizes me. Of course he fucking does. The question is whether he’ll call me out in front of the team or wait for privacy.
“Any questions?” I ask the room.
A tense silence falls over the room for several seconds. Then Tate’s hand rises.
“Yeah, I’ve got a question.” His voice is steady, but I can hear the deep rumble of anger underneath. “What exactly makes you think you’re qualified to fix someone else’s problems?”
The words hit like a slap shot to the chest. Everybody in the room can hear the hostility dripping from his lips, even if they don’t understand the reason for it.
“Experience,” I reply. “Sometimes an outside perspective can identify issues that are hard to see from within.”
“Right. An outside perspective.” Tate’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Because outsiders always have the full picture, don’t they?”
Coach Enver frowns, clearly sensing something he doesn’t understand. “Barnes, you have a problem with the arrangement?”
Tate’s jaw tightens, and for a moment I think he might blow like Old Faithful. Tell the room exactly what kind of man their new coach really is.
Instead, he shrugs. “No problem, Coach. Just wanted to understand what we’re working with.”
The meeting continues with Enver’s discussion of practice schedules and upcoming road trips, but I tune it all out. All my attention is focused on the guy in the back row who’s glowering at me like he’s planning my excruciatingly painful murder.
When Enver finally dismisses the team, players walk out in small groups, talking about dinner plans and weekend activities. Tate gets up and follows them, but I can’t let him go without addressing this.
“Barnes,” I call out, using the authority of my position. “Stay behind for a minute. We should discuss your specific training plan.”
The last few players glance back curiously, but they don’t stick around. Coach Enver nods at me and heads back to his office, leaving us alone in the conference room.
Once everyone is gone, Tate slams his hands on the table and leans forward, disgust burning in his eyes. “Well,” he snarls. “This is fucking interesting.”
I slide past him, close the door, and turn to face him, knowing that everything I say in the next few minutes will determine whether this assignment will be difficult or completely impossible.
“Tate... ”
“Oh, we’re using names now?” His laugh is sharp enough to draw blood.
“I can explain.”
He walks around the table toward me, and I resist the urge to back away.
“Great, because I’d love to hear how the mysterious stranger who fucked me and disappeared is now standing here posing as my new coach, expecting to help me get my game back on track.
How the hell is that supposed to work, exactly? ”