Chapter 6
SIX
zane
The email from Agent Morrison sits in my inbox like a ticking time bomb.
Need progress report. Operation timeline accelerating. Syndicate activity increasing in Oakland area. Contact expected within two weeks.
Two weeks to gather intelligence on an organization that took years to infiltrate. To build a case that could take down a multi-million dollar sports betting ring. To do all of this while maintaining a coaching cover that’s about as stable as a sand castle facing a fucking tsunami.
Oh, and to somehow help a goalie whose career I’m wrecking just by breathing the same air as him.
No pressure.
I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling of the no-frills hotel room that’s been home for the past week. The walls are taupe, the carpet is taupe, even the goddamn curtains are taupe.
My phone buzzes with a text from Sunrise Manor. Another update about my father that I’m not sure I want to read.
Mr. Christensen, your father had a better day today. He remembered your name during lunch and asked if you were coming to visit soon. - Sarah
He remembered my name. Asked if I was coming to visit. Which means he’s having one of his clear days, the kind where the fog lifts just enough for him to realize his son hasn’t been around for months.
The kind of day where he probably wonders if I’m dead or just don’t give a shit about him anymore.
I shoot off a response.
Thanks. I plan to make a trip out soon. Please let him know.
Another lie. But what else can I say? That I can’t visit because dangerous mafia thugs might follow me there? That I’m working undercover for the FBI and any contact with him could put him in danger? That I’m a coward who’s been using his safety as an excuse to avoid watching him forget who I am?
I haven’t seen my father in six months. Not since the FBI approached me with this deal that was supposed to keep both of us safe.
He raised me by himself after my mother died when I was eight, worked two jobs to pay for hockey equipment and ice time, never missed a game even when he was dead on his feet.
And now, when he needs me most, I’m nowhere to be found.
The guilt sits in my stomach like a lead weight, mixing with the guilt about Tate and the pressure from Morrison and the constant fear that everything’s going to blow up in my face.
But I can’t think about that right now. I have a practice to get through, and after yesterday’s disaster, I need to find a way to actually help Tate instead of making everything worse.
Assuming he’ll let me help him, which is about as likely as the syndicate suddenly disbanding.
An hour later, I stand behind the bench with my clipboard watching players warm up on the ice.
Tate’s in the crease, going through his stretches.
When his eyes meet mine across the ice, there’s nothing there.
No anger, no frustration, no acknowledgment that I even exist. Just cold, professional indifference that somehow feels worse than blood-boiling hatred.
At least hatred means he still feels something.
“Barnes,” I call out as warm-ups end. “Let’s work on your positioning.”
He skates over without a word, his face blank. But I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s gripping his stick like he wants to use it as a weapon.
“We’re going to start simple today,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Basic angle work. No pressure, just fundamentals.”
“Sure thing, Coach.” His voice is flat, toneless, and cold. A shiver runs through me.
We start with the most basic drills possible. Tate executes them perfectly.
And every movement is performed with all the passion of someone reading a grocery list.
“Good,” I say after the fifth repetition. “Now let’s add some speed.”
He nods and resets, still flawless, still emotionless. Like he’s a robot programmed to stop pucks without any of the instinct or feel that made him special.
“Tate,” I skate closer, dropping my voice. “You’re executing the techniques perfectly, but you’re not playing. You’re just going through the motions.”
“Isn’t that what you want? Perfect technique?”
“I want you to trust your instincts.”
“My instincts got me into this mess.” The words slip out before he can stop them, and for a split second, something flickers across his face. Vulnerability. Or regret. Maybe both.
Then the mask slides back into place, and he’s the emotionless robot again.
“Lemme run it again,” he says, skating back to his position.
We continue the drills for another ten minutes, each repetition technically accurate and completely lifeless. It’s like watching someone perform surgery on their own game, cutting out every piece of personality and instinct that made them who they are.
It’s fucking heartbreaking.
When the team scrimmage starts, Tate plays the exact same way. He stops the shots he’s supposed to stop and doesn’t try for anything spectacular. No diving saves, no aggressive challenges, no fire. He plays it safe but his movements are completely uninspired.
The worst part is, his teammates see it too. Carter keeps glancing at the net, his eyebrows furrowed. Masterson tries to create easier saves, clearly worried about his friend. Even Cam Foster, who’s usually focused entirely on his own game, keeps looking back to make sure Tate’s still breathing.
When practice finally ends, players come off the ice with the energy level of a team that’s watching their season slip away. Tate’s last to leave again, taking his time with his gear while the rest of the team trudges to the locker room.
I hang back, shuffling papers, waiting for him to acknowledge my existence. When he finally skates toward the bench, his movements are tired and listless.
“You did better today,” I say as he passes me.
He stops, not looking at me. “Yeah?”
“You executed everything perfectly.”
“But?”
I pause. “Hockey’s not just about perfect execution. It’s about instinct, feel, and passion. Today you played like someone going through a checklist, not someone whose heart is in it.”
“Maybe I can’t be that guy anymore. Maybe I don’t have it in me.”
Something in my chest twists. “That’s not true.”
He finally looks at me, and I can see the exhaustion in his gaze. “Face it, Coach. Whatever magic I used to have is gone. You’re stuck trying to rebuild a broken goalie who can’t handle having his play on the ice questioned.”
“You’re not broken.”
“Right.” His laugh is dry and grates against my ears. “Then explain the last week. Explain yesterday’s practice. Explain why I can’t seem to do my job anymore.”
Because I’m here. Because my presence reminds you of a night that changed everything for both of us. Because you can’t separate the coach from the man who left you alone in that hotel room.
But I can’t say any of that without making everything worse.
“You’re dealing with a lot of pressure right now,” I say instead. “Contract year, media attention, team expectations. Sometimes that can affect performance.”
“You sound like all the other guys.”
“No, I sound like a coach who’s seen this before.”
“Have you seen a player fall apart like this? Because he can’t handle working with a ghost from his past?”
He’s edging toward what’s really going on, and I’m not sure if I want him to take that final step.
“Sometimes personal history complicates professional relationships.”
“Personal history.” He shakes his head. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What would you call it?”
I can see the wheels turning, see him weighing his words, deciding how much of truth he’s willing to reveal. Then something closes off behind his expression, and the professional mask slides back into place.
“A mistake,” he says finally. “A mistake that’s affecting my ability to do my job. For what it’s worth, I can do my job. You said the technical work is solid. Maybe that’ll be enough to keep me employed.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the guilt I’ve carried for two years.
I stay there for a long time, staring at the empty net where Tate stood just moments before. The net looks less protected without him in it. Like something vital and irreplaceable has been plucked out, leaving it completely exposed.
My phone buzzes with another message from Morrison.
Status update needed. What’s your assessment of target player’s vulnerability to approach?
Target player. Like Tate is just another assignment.
I know exactly how the syndicate would approach someone like Tate.
I’ve seen their playbook, lived it myself.
They don’t start with threats. They take advantage of weakness and start by offering solutions.
Performance enhancement tips from “former players.” Inside information on opposing teams. Connections with management who could guarantee contract extensions.
They’d present themselves as his salvation, not his destruction.
A struggling goalie in a contract year, isolated from his support system by secrets he can’t share? They’d see him as perfect. Desperate enough to listen, skilled enough to be useful, vulnerable enough to control.
The thought makes my stomach turn. Fuck, I can’t let him go down that rabbit hole.
I stare at Morrison’s message for a long time before responding. I can’t put him on their radar. I need to figure out a way to help him so he doesn’t become a target.
Player showing signs of stress but remains focused on performance. No obvious vulnerabilities identified yet.
If the syndicate approached him tomorrow with the right offer, he might be desperate enough to listen.
But I can’t tell Morrison that. Can’t admit that my presence is what’s making Tate vulnerable in the first place.
My phone rings, and Morrison’s name appears on the screen. Fuck. He’s not settling for text updates anymore.
“Christensen, I need a more detailed report on the Oakland situation.”
I clutch the phone tight against my ear.
“It’s been a week. What’s your read on Barnes?”
Shit. Even Morrison knows that goalies are the easiest position to corrupt. They touch the puck on every play, have the most influence on game outcomes, and carry the most individual pressure.
“He’s dealing with performance issues that could make him susceptible to outside influence,” I say, hating myself for exposing him further.
“Good. That’s what we need. A player under pressure who might be willing to make a deal.”
“I should mention that the player’s performance issues may be related to my presence on the team. There’s some... history that’s complicating the coaching relationship.”
Silence on the other end of the line. “What kind of history?”
“Personal. Nothing criminal, but it’s affecting his ability to focus.”
“Can you work around it?”
Can I? Can I find a way to help Tate get his game back while working this undercover position? Can I protect him from a syndicate that might target him while working for the organization that’s supposed to catch them and make an example of him?
“I’m working on it,” I say.
“Work faster. We need results, Christensen. The syndicate’s been quiet for too long, which means they’re planning something big. Your job is to be ready when they make their move.”
“Understood.”
“And Christensen? If this personal history becomes a problem for the operation, I’ll pull you out and send someone else. Someone who can maintain professional objectivity.”
My breath catches. If Morrison pulls me out, the deal I made with the FBI dies with my involvement. No more witness protection. No more federal funding for my father’s care. No more immunity from prosecution for my past involvement with the syndicate.
And if they revoke my protection, the syndicate will find me within a week. They’ll finish what they started with my knee, and they’ll probably go after my father just to make a point.
“That won’t be necessary,” I say. “I can handle the situation.”
“See that you do. You’re only useful to us as long as you can deliver results. The moment you become a liability, you’re on your own. And we both know how that story ends.”