Chapter 18 Zane
EIGHTEEN
zane
The equipment room smells like sweat and rubber, but it’s become our rendezvous spot. We’re still pretending this is just physical. Still lying to ourselves that these stolen moments between practice sessions don’t mean anything.
Tate’s fingers tear open the buttons of my shirt. I let myself get lost in the way he touches me like I’m something precious instead of something that’s going to destroy his life.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, his lips against my throat, and he’s right. I’ve been checking my phone every five minutes, waiting for Morrison’s next threat. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because it’s fucking coming. Hard and fast.
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” He pulls back to look at me. “You’ve been jumpy all week. What’s going on?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say.
“Zane.” His voice is patient, but there’s an edge to it. “We’ve been doing this dance for weeks. The mysterious phone calls, the meetings you won’t explain, the way you look over your shoulder like someone’s following you. I’m not an idiot.”
No, he’s not. He’s observant and smart, too good at reading people for his own good. And I’m running out of excuses.
He’s still touching me, fingers tracing the line of my collarbone, but there’s tension in his body now. The intimacy we’d found is slipping away, replaced by everything I’m not saying.
“Look,” he continues when I don’t respond, “I get that we haven’t defined what this is. I get that you’re not ready for relationship talks or whatever. But if we’re going to keep doing this, I need to know you trust me enough to be honest.”
Trust. Dammit, I do trust him. More than I should. But trusting him and telling him the truth are two different things.
“Some things are better left alone,” I say.
“Says who?” Frustration laces his voice now. He narrows his eyes, pulling away even though his hands are still on me. “You think I can’t handle whatever this is? You think I’m too fragile to deal with your problems? I’m not a fucking child.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.” His hands drop and he steps back. “You want to fuck me, but you don’t want to trust me. You want me around when you need a distraction, but you don’t want me to find out anything about you.”
The accusation stings because there’s truth in it.
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, Zane? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you’re using me.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “And I’m the idiot who’s letting it happen.”
Using him. Christ. If he only knew how backwards that is. If he only knew that every moment I spend with him makes it harder to do what Morrison wants and so much harder to keep him safe.
“I promise I’m not using you.”
“Prove it. Tell me what’s going on.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I reach for it. A text from Morrison flashes across my screen.
Meeting tonight. 8 PM. You know the place. Don’t be late.
“You’re doing it again,” Tate says, arms folded across his chest as he watches me read the message.
“Doing what?”
“Pulling away.”
I shove the phone back in my pocket, but the damage is done. I can see it in his face.
“I have to,” I say.
“No, you’re choosing to. There’s a difference.” He pulls on his shoes. “At least this time, you’re telling me instead of just disappearing.”
“You want the truth?” I ask, and something in my voice makes him go still.
“Yeah. I do.”
I take a breath. “I owe money. A lot of money. To people who don’t take no for an answer.”
His face changes, surprise and concern seeping into his expression. “How much?”
“More than I can afford. More than I’ll ever be able to pay on a coach’s salary. I made some bad bets when I was playing. Thought I could win the cash back. Instead I just dug myself in deeper.”
“Jesus, Zane.” He scrapes a hand down the front of his face.
“The guy you saw me with at the restaurant? That’s my handler. He makes sure I don’t run, makes sure I keep paying what I can.” I rub the back of my neck, hating how easily the lies tumble from my lips. “And if they think someone else is important to me... ”
I don’t finish the sentence. Don’t need to.
“They’ll use me to get to you,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, processing it all. When he looks at me again, there’s something different in his eyes. Disappointment.
My gut clenches.
“So what are you saying? That this was a mistake?”
“I’m saying you need to be smart about this. About us. I’m saying maybe we should step back before someone gets hurt.”
“Right.” His voice is flat now. “Step back.”
“Look, I didn’t say I wanted—”
“No, you’re right.” He’s already moving away from me, putting distance between us. “This was always temporary, anyway. I knew that. We both did.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He looks at me, and there’s a wall there now that wasn’t there five minutes ago, his hazel eyes hard. “You owe money to dangerous people. Getting involved with me puts us both at risk. The smart thing is to walk away before it gets worse.”
He’s throwing my own words back at me, and my heart sinks.
Tate sounds tired when he speaks again. “Look, I get it, Zane. I do. But I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to get close to someone who’s always got one foot out the door. I can’t open myself up like that again.”
“This isn’t like Vegas,” I tell him.
“You’re already pulling away. Already making excuses for why this can’t work.” He shakes his head. “At least this time you told me why you’re leaving instead of just disappearing.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“No, you’re just stepping back. For my own good.” His smile is bitter. “Thanks for that.”
My phone buzzes again with another text.
Don’t make me come looking for you.
“I need to go,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “You do.”
I have my hand on the door handle when he speaks again.
“Zane?”
I slowly turn around.
“Next time you decide to protect someone by pushing them away, maybe lead with that instead of letting them think you actually want them around,” he says. “Nobody likes to be jerked around like an asshole.”
My lips press tight as I leave the room. The door closes behind me with a quiet click that sounds like the end of everything. The ache in my chest is almost too much to bear.
***
Morrison is waiting at the same restaurant, at the same table, with the same impatient expression. I’m ten minutes late, and he doesn’t bother hiding his irritation.
“Appreciate the courtesy of a phone call next time,” he says by way of greeting. “Now sit down. We need to talk.”
I sink into the chair across from him.
“The timeline’s accelerating,” Morrison says, toying with his napkin. “My sources say the syndicate is getting impatient. They want to move on some targets soon.”
“How soon?”
“Weeks, not months.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Which means we need to be ready. I need you to start identifying vulnerable players on the team. Anyone with financial problems, family issues, anything that could make them susceptible to an approach.”
“I’ve already told you, I don’t have any names for you.”
“This isn’t a request, Christensen. You’re not here because I like your sparkling personality.
You’re here because your father needs medical care that costs more than you’ll make in ten years without your NHL salary, and because we both know the alternative to cooperation is a very shallow grave. For you.”
The threat is delivered in the same conversational tone he uses to order coffee. This is the reality I live with every day.
“I understand the requirement,” I say.
“Good. Then you’ll understand why I need those names by the end of the week.”
“And if the players don’t take the bait? What if they’re not interested in what the syndicate is selling?”
Morrison’s smile is cold. “Then we make them interested. Create the right kind of pressure, the right kind of desperation. It’s amazing how quickly principles disappear when someone’s back is up against the wall.”
My mind immediately flashes on Tate’s face. He’s under so much pressure with his position hanging in the balance. It would be easy for someone like Morrison to exploit that.
“What kind of pressure?” I ask.
“Whatever works. Bad publicity, family threats, career sabotage. The syndicate has a lot of tools at their disposal.” He finishes his coffee and stands. “Give me those names, Christensen. And remember,” he says. “Your father’s counting on you to make the right choice.”
He leaves me sitting alone at the table, staring at his coffee and wondering how much deeper I can sink into this shit before I drown.
My eyes drop down to my phone. Three missed texts from Tate. But I don’t read them. I can’t handle his words right now, not when Morrison’s threats are still echoing in my head.
Tate was right about one thing. I am always looking for ways to push him away. But not for the reasons he thinks.
I’m pushing him away because every day I don’t give Morrison his name is another day closer to the moment when my “handler” decides I’m more of a liability than an asset.
And when that happens, everyone I care about becomes a target.