Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
zane
Having dinner with Coach Enver is the last thing I want to be doing tonight but since I need to keep this job while I figure out how to not completely fuck up my life and anyone else’s, I agree to meet at Chez Laurent.
“Coach Kowalski and Bob Marshall will join us, too,” he’d said after practice. “We want to discuss some player evaluations and get your take on where things stand.”
Player evaluation discussion with the coaching staff and the GM. Translation: they want to talk about Tate’s issues and whether my coaching methods are worth a damn. Perfect timing, considering I spent the afternoon watching him give up five goals anyone with half an eye could have stopped.
Chez Laurent is one of those upscale places downtown where business gets done over expensive wine and steaks that cost more than most people make in a day.
I’m fifteen minutes early, which gives me time to sit at the bar and get my head screwed on straight.
My phone has two voicemails from Morrison that I haven’t responded to, both asking for updates on “the situation.” As if I have any fucking control over when the syndicate decides to make their move.
The anonymous texts about my father stopped yesterday, but the radio silence makes things worse because I know I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Zane,” Enver’s voice cuts through my spiral. I slant a look over my shoulder. He’s walking over with Frank Kowalski and the Bob Marshall. Three men whose opinions could make or break this career, so I need to smile and try to act normal.
I shake hands with each of them, noting Bob’s firm grip.
“Thanks for joining us, Zane,” Bob says as we’re led to a corner table with a view of the main dining room. “Coach Enver tells me you’ve been working closely with one of our struggling players. We’re interested in your perspective on his performance.”
“Happy to help however I can,” I say, sinking into my chair as the knot in my stomach tightens.
A server walks over with menus. Bob orders wine while I scan the room, my skin crawling with unease.
And then I see him.
Tate. At a table across the dining room, sitting with a man in an expensive suit who’s leaning forward like he’s engrossed in their conversation. The man is older and good-looking for a fleeting second, my heart clenches. Then I look harder.
Shit.
Tate isn’t on a date.
I sit up straighter, my throat closing.
I know that posture, the hand motions, the earnest, understanding expression. I sat across from it myself, years ago, when I was desperate and scared and looking for someone to throw me a lifeline.
The man talking to Tate isn’t just any businessman. He’s a recruiter. Someone who makes his living identifying vulnerable athletes and turning them into assets.
“So, Zane, what’s your assessment of Barnes’s recent performance?
” Bob’s question forces me to drag my attention back to the table, even though every instinct is screaming at me to get up and walk over to Tate’s table, to stop whatever the hell is happening over there.
Because judging by the way Tate is hanging on the guy’s every word, it’s not good.
“He’s going through a rough patch,” I manage. “Performance anxiety is common in goalies. The position requires precise mental focus, so any disruption can affect everything.”
I keep Tate and the guy in my periphery. Tate leans in, completely sucked into what he’s being told, and I can see the hope in his expression even from across the room.
Fuck. This is happening. It’s actually happening.
“Rough patch is generous,” Frank says, taking a roll from the basket. “Five goals in forty minutes today. That’s not anxiety, that’s a fundamental breakdown.”
“Every goaltender goes through periods where nothing seems to work,” I argue, a sliver of my attention on the recruitment happening fifty feet away.
“Patrick Roy had stretches where he couldn’t stop a beach ball.
Jonathan Quick went through a season where people questioned if he was done.
And you know how those guys overcame their issues.
The talent is still there, trust me on that. ”
“But is the mental fortitude?” Bob asks. “Because talent without consistency isn’t of much use to us. We need to know our goaltenders can handle pressure, especially in critical situations.”
My eyes flicker back to Tate’s table.
The man with Tate slides something across the table, probably a business card, the same move every recruiter makes when they’re ready to transition from assessment to proposition.
Fuck. He hasn’t shut the situation down.
Tate takes it, studies it, and I watch him shift from cautious interest to genuine consideration.
“Zane?” Enver’s voice has an edge that suggests he’s noticed my distraction. “You seem preoccupied.”
“Sorry. Just thinking about Barnes’s development.” I force myself to make eye contact.
Sweat pebbles on the back of my neck, panic assaulting my mind. What if Morrison’s team is outside, waiting to swoop in?
“I think with the right support, he can regain his form. He’s got natural talent you can’t teach,” I say.
“Natural talent is only valuable if it translates to wins,” Frank points out. “And right now, we’re not seeing that.”
I force myself to stay seated even though every part of me wants to run over to Tate and drag him away from that damn table.
I lived through this exact scenario three years ago.
Different restaurant, different recruiter, same predatory patience.
Volkov had been just as smooth, just as understanding, just as willing to offer solutions to problems that “traditional channels” couldn’t address.
And I’d been just as desperate as Tate looks right now.
“What about his personal life?” Bob asks before taking a bite of bread. “Sometimes off-ice issues affect on-ice performance. Family problems, relationship drama, financial stress.”
The irony is devastating. Bob’s fishing for information about the very relationship that’s contributing to Tate’s vulnerability, while that vulnerability is being exploited by someone who makes his living destroying athletes’ lives.
“I’m not aware of any significant personal issues,” I say. “He seems focused on hockey.”
“The question is whether we give him more time or start looking at alternatives,” Bob continues, oblivious to the fact that the player we’re discussing might just be contemplating the first step toward destroying his career. “Parker’s shown real promise.”
“Parker’s young,” I say. “He hasn’t faced the kind of pressure that Barnes deals with regularly. Give Barnes another month, see how he responds to adjusted coaching. Then we can do another evaluation.”
“Adjusted methods?” Enver asks, picking up a glass of wine. “What are you thinking?”
What am I thinking? I’m thinking that I should have warned him. Should have found a way to reach him without blowing my cover, should have risked Morrison’s threats to keep Tate away from people who want to exploit him.
“More individualized attention. Focus on rebuilding confidence through controlled situations.” I make shit up as I go, saying whatever might buy me time while my mind races.
“Sometimes a player needs to step back and work on fundamentals away from game pressure to reconnect with their natural abilities.”
The syndicate contact gets up and walks toward the restroom, leaving Tate to stare at the card. I can see him weighing his options, probably telling himself that one meeting can’t hurt, that he’s just exploring possibilities.
I told myself the same thing when Mikhail Volkov first approached me. What could be the harm in listening?
The harm is that people like Volkov and the man who just left are experts at saying exactly what you need to hear. They’re predators who’ve made careers out of identifying desperate athletes and turning that desperation into compliance.
“That could work,” Frank muses, stroking his chin. “Take some pressure off, let him rebuild without the scrutiny of game situations.”
“Exactly. Sometimes the best thing you can do for a struggling player is give them space to remember why they love the game.” The words taste like shit on my tongue because I know that space isn’t what Tate needs.
What he needs is someone to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, and tell him that whatever was just offered to him isn’t worth the price he’ll end up paying.
Tate sits back in his chair. He looks around the restaurant, and for a hot second, I think he might see me. But then his gaze passes over our table without recognition, his mind clearly elsewhere.
He’s thinking about possibilities. About solutions to problems that have been eating at him for months.
He has no idea that understanding is the hook, and he’s already swallowing it.
“I think that’s a reasonable approach,” Enver says, and my attention snaps back to the table. “Give Barnes another few weeks. Let’s see if we can get him back on track.”
A few weeks. By then, it’ll be too late. By then, Tate will either be working for people who’ll destroy him if he refuses their demands, or he’ll be dead.
My pulse hammers hard against my neck, blood pounding between my temples.
Unless the FBI operation works. Unless Morrison’s plan to use Tate as bait actually results in arrests instead of casualties. Unless I can find a way to protect him from the inside while pretending to help destroy him.
“Good,” Bob says, draining the red wine from his glass. “I think that’s a solid plan. But we have to be prepared to take action if this method doesn’t work.” He gives me a pointed look. “Just so you are aware, Coach. We are prepared to make changes.”
I nod and somehow manage to choke down the rest of my meal, making mindless conversation and counting the seconds before I can bolt out of here. But the meal drags on and I can’t escape.
At one point, I excuse myself to go to the restroom. I keep my head down, moving toward the back of the restaurant as stealthily as possible, so that Tate doesn’t notice me.
I close the door behind me and lock it. Tate thinks he’s making a good career move, listening to promises that he believes can help him claw his way out of the hole he’s tumbled into.
But those promises are too good to be true. And by the time he figures that out, it’ll be too late.
I walk over to the sink to splash some water on my face. Then I pull out my phone and stare at Morrison’s unread messages. He wants to know if the syndicate has made contact.
A slow breath expels from my lips. Okay, maybe he doesn’t know what’s going on here right now. That buys us all time, but unfortunately, not enough of it.
I could tell him the contact already happened. I could report that the syndicate has made their move and Tate is considering their offer. I could play my part in the operation, helping them build their case.
Instead, I delete the messages and later I drive back to my hotel, knowing that tomorrow everything changes.
Tomorrow, Tate will probably meet with his contact again for his first real consulting session. Tomorrow, he’ll take another step toward a path that leads to a literal dead end.
And I’ll keep pretending to be his coach while helping the people who want to use him as bait.
Sometimes I wonder if my father would rather die than know what kind of man his son has become.
Tonight is one of those times.