Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
zane
The Calgary game should have given me some relief. Tate played lights-out and shut them down completely. The Raptors won three to one. It was the kind of performance that makes management think twice about trading you.
Instead, I’m sitting in my office at eleven o’clock, staring at my phone.
Tate’s been different since the game ended. Not “celebrating-a-win” different. Distracted, checking his phone every two minutes, making excuses about why he can’t grab drinks with the team. During the post-game meeting, he kept glancing at the clock like he had somewhere important to be.
I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror.
It’s the look of someone weighing an offer they know they shouldn’t take.
Morrison texted multiple times during the game with messages that got less and less patient.
Your window is closing.
The last one was just a number. Ten thousand. The monthly cost of keeping my father at Sunrise Manor.
I scrub a hand down the front of my face. Fuck, I should be home, trying to sleep, preparing for tomorrow’s practice. But still I’m here, thinking about the way Tate looked during our last film session. How he kept checking his phone between video clips, distracted, his mind somewhere else.
Tapping the end of my pen on the table, my mind stumbles back to the questions he asked… which upcoming games mattered most for standings, which opponents were struggling, which games “wouldn’t really hurt us if we had an off night.”
They were questions that sound innocent enough until you realize no competitive athlete talks about acceptable losses unless they’re thinking about shit no athlete should think about.
The knock on my office door practically makes me hit the ceiling. The building should be empty except for security.
“Come in.”
Tate pushes through the door, still wearing his suit from the post-game interviews.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“It’s late.”
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t sleep. I tried you at the hotel but you weren’t there, so I figured you might be here.” He closes the door behind him, leans against it. “I keep thinking about what you told me. About your dad, the medical bills. The gambling debts.”
Shit. Here it comes.
“What about it?”
“You said you got mixed up with bad people. People who don’t just forgive debts when you can’t pay.” He steps closer, and I can see something flicker in his expression. “What if I told you I might know people who could help with that?”
“Help how?”
“People with money. Lots of money. Who are interested in... consulting opportunities,” he says. “Opportunities for people in our position. People who understand hockey.”
“Tate.”
He holds out a hand. “Just hear me out.” His voice is tinged with excitement, like he’s figured out how to save us both, and it makes my stomach crash to my feet.
“These people, they understand that sometimes athletes need financial flexibility. They’re willing to pay good money for consulting work. Really good money.”
“What kind of consulting?” I clench the pen tight in my fist, resisting the urge to fire it at the wall.
“Game management. Performance advisory services.” He’s using their words now, the careful explanations that make criminal activity sound like a business opportunity. “Fifty thousand per consultation.”
Fifty grand. More than some people make in a year. The same amount they offered me back in Detroit, when I was young and stupid.
“That’s a lot of money for consulting.”
“Yeah, it is.” He sits down across from my desk, leans forward like he’s sharing a secret. “But here’s the thing. I think they might be interested in both of us. A goalie and a goalie coach working together? That’s worth paying for. We have lots of value as a team.”
Both of us. Jesus Christ, he wants to drag me into this thing right alongside him.
“Who are these people?”
“Does it matter? They have money, they’re willing to pay for services, and they understand our situation.” His voice drops. “Your situation. With your father.”
This is the moment where I could let him pull me in, where I could pretend to go along with it while feeding information to Morrison. Play the role of the corrupt coach helping his corrupt goalie make dirty money.
It would be so easy. Tate trusts me. He thinks he’s saving me from my own financial problems while solving his performance anxiety. Morrison gets his case, my father gets his care, and everyone wins.
Except for the part where Tate’s life gets destroyed.
Except for the part where he ends up like me…trapped, blackmailed, forced to choose between people he loves and his own survival.
“You have to listen to me,” I say.
“No, I already know what you’re going to say.
It sounds too good to be true, right? That it’s probably illegal, and we could get in trouble.
” He’s talking faster now, trying to convince both of us.
“But we’re already in trouble. Your dad needs care you can’t afford.
My career’s hanging by a thread. Sometimes you have to take risks, right? ”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
“Then what?” His forehead pinches, brows furrowed.
I look at him. Twenty-six years old, trying to hold on to a dream that’s slipping away. He’s a good kid from a good family who’s never had to make the kind of choices that leave permanent scars.
He has no idea what he’s walking into. He doesn’t know that the people offering him fifty thousand dollars per game have already researched his family, his routines, his weaknesses. He has no clue that once he signs that first contract, he’ll never be free of them or his decision.
My phone buzzes again with a text from Morrison.
Need an update on Barnes contact. Meeting set for tomorrow night. Everything in position.
He knows. And everything is in position. Including me.
There’s no version of this where Tate doesn’t get hurt. If he takes the syndicate deal, they’ll own him. If he doesn’t, and the FBI operation fails, they’ll retaliate. If the FBI operation succeeds, he becomes a witness in a federal case against people who kill fucking witnesses.
The only way to protect him is to make sure he never gets involved at all.
Which means telling him the truth about why I can’t let him do this.
All of it.
“Tate,” I say. “There’s something you need to know.”
“What?”
I think about my father, sitting in that facility, alone and lost. About Morrison’s threats and the anonymous texts and the impossible choice between the person I’ve fallen in love with and the person who raised me.
“The people you’re talking about…” I pause. “I know who they are.”
He leans toward me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve met them before. Years ago, in Detroit. And I know what they really want from you.”
“Zane, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that you weren’t their first choice for this job.” I hold his gaze, and I can see the exact second he realizes I’m about to tell him something that will change everything. “You weren’t even their idea.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.” I stand up and grab my jacket from the back of my chair. “But not here. Too many fucking ears listening. “
“Listening to what?”
“To conversations that could get us both killed if the wrong people hear them.” I head for the door, then stop with my hand on the handle. “You want to know about my gambling debts? About the bad people I owe money to? About why I really pulled away from you?”
He nods.
“Then meet me at Pier 39. The parking garage, level three. One hour.” I open the door, then look back at him one more time. “And please trust me when I tell you that you need to cancel whatever meeting you have planned for tomorrow night. Do not fucking go.”
I’m already down the hallway when I hear him call my name, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Because if I turn around and see the confusion and hurt in his eyes, I might lose my nerve.
And then we’ll both be fucked.
The elevator ride to the parking garage feels like the longest minute of my life. In one hour, I’m going to tell the person I love that I’ve been lying to him since the day we met. That every conversation, every kiss, every moment of trust has been built on a foundation of lies.
That he’s the bait in a federal investigation, and I’m the one who stuck him on the hook by being Morrison’s plant.
My phone rings. Morrison’s number flashes across the screen. My gut tightens.
I decline the call and keep walking.
Tonight, I’m going to burn down everything I’ve spent the last two years building.
But maybe I can save the one thing that actually matters.