Chapter 32 Tate
THIRTY-TWO
tate
It’s been three days since Zane told me the truth about everything, since I walked away from him in that parking garage. I haven’t eaten or slept, still trying to convince myself I made the right choice.
The card sits on my kitchen counter next to my coffee mug. The elegant black print on cream paper glares back at me.
Viktor Petrov - Performance Consulting.
Every time I look at it, I hear Zane’s voice in my head.
“You would have done something stupid. You would have gotten yourself killed.”
Maybe he was right. Maybe I would have done something stupid.
But at least it would have been my choice.
That’s what keeps gnawing at me. Not just that he lied…although that was bad enough…but that he thought he had the right to make decisions about my life without telling me. The FBI, the syndicate, all of it happening around me while I stumbled through my days like a fucking puppet.
Well, I’m done being a puppet.
With a thundering heart, I pick up the card and dial the number before I can change my mind.
“Viktor Petrov,” the deep accented voice smoothly answers.
“It’s Tate Barnes. We need to talk.”
“Ah, Mr. Barnes. I was beginning to think you’d reconsidered our conversation.”
“I have reconsidered. That’s why we need to talk.”
“Of course. Shall we say Chez Laurent again? This evening, eight o’clock?”
“No. Somewhere public. Somewhere with people around.” I don’t trust this guy, and I want to make sure I’m not in some remote location in case shit goes sideways.
“As you wish. There’s a coffee shop on Union Square called Bluegrass Coffee. Do you know it?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Excellent. Eight o’clock then.”
The line goes dead. I put my phone down and look at my reflection in the black screen. Making that call doesn’t make me feel like I have any bit more control over my life.
If anything, I feel like I just lost whatever I had left.
And two times nothing is still nothing.
The rest of the day drags. Practice is a disaster. I can’t focus, can’t track the puck, and I let in three goals that should have been easy saves. Coach Enver pulls me aside after my crap ass performance.
“What’s going on with you, Barnes?”
“I’m just tired, I guess.” Fucking weak.
“Tired doesn’t explain letting in a goal from center ice.”
He’s right. The third goal was embarrassing. It was a routine shot that I completely shit the bed on because I was thinking about Petrov instead of the puck.
“Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”
“Make sure that it doesn’t. Don’t give management more ammunition against you. I want to keep you in your spot, but I’ll pull you if they give the order.”
Great. As if I don’t have enough pressure right now.
“I understand. I won’t let you down.”
Those words taste like shit in my mouth since I feel like letting people down is the only thing I’ve been any good at recently.
I shower, grab my gear, and head home to change. Bluegrass Coffee is busy when I show up, which is exactly what I wanted. Lots of people, lots of witnesses, no quiet, shadowy corners.
Petrov’s already there, sitting at a small table near the window with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. He looks completely normal, like a middle-aged businessman reading the sports section.
“Mr. Barnes.” He stands up when he sees me and greets me with a smile. Then he holds out his hand for a shake. “Thank you for calling.”
“Let’s get one thing straight.” I don’t shake his hand, and I don’t sit down. “I’m not here because I’m interested in your offer. I’m here to tell you to stay away from me.”
His smile never wavers. “Please, sit. Let’s discuss this like civilized adults.”
“I’m fine standing.”
“Very well.” He sits back down, gestures to the empty chair across from him. “Though I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
“I doubt it.”
Petrov takes a sip of his coffee and looks up at me. “Your goalie coach, Zane Christensen. He’s an interesting man. Did you know he used to play professionally?”
The mention of Zane’s name knocks the wind out of me but I struggle to keep my expression neutral. “What about him?” My fingers ball into tight fists.
“He had quite a promising career in Detroit. Until his injury, of course.” Petrov takes a sip of his coffee. “Terrible thing, career-ending injuries. Especially when they’re... preventable.”
“Get to the point,” I say through clenched teeth, my pulse slamming against my throat.
“The point, Mr. Barnes, is that sometimes people in your profession find themselves in difficult situations. Financial pressures, family obligations, career uncertainties.” He folds his newspaper, sets it aside. “Sometimes they need assistance from people who understand their unique circumstances.”
“And sometimes they just want to be left alone.”
“Of course. But first, perhaps you’d like to know more about the assistance we provided to Mr. Christensen during his time in Detroit?”
I don’t want to know. Don’t want to hear about Zane’s involvement with these people, don’t want to think about what they might have done to him or made him do. But my feet stay rooted to the floor.
“What kind of assistance?”
“The financial kind. Fifty thousand dollars per consultation, the same offer we discussed with you.” Petrov’s voice is casual. “He was quite cooperative. Until he wasn’t.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he tried to terminate our business relationship on his own. Without considering the consequences.” Petrov’s slimy smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“That’s when he sustained his career-ending injury.
It was an unfortunate accident during practice that could have been avoided if he’d honored his commitments. ”
The words hit like a bucket of ice water to the face. They destroyed Zane’s career because he tried to walk away. And now they’re telling me exactly what they’ll do if I don’t cooperate.
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m sharing information about past business relationships. Whether you choose to learn from history is entirely up to you.”
“I’m not interested in your business.”
“Perhaps not today. But circumstances change, Mr. Barnes. Career situations evolve. What seems impossible today might seem necessary tomorrow.”
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thin manila envelope. Then he slides it across the table toward me.
“What’s that?”
“Information about your current situation. Your performance statistics, your contract details, your family circumstances.” His voice stays pleasant, like we’re discussing the fucking weather and not his criminal empire. “It’s really amazing what public records can tell you about a person’s life.”
I don’t touch the envelope. “I told you, I’m not interested.”
“Take a look. I think you’ll find it quite illuminating.”
Against my better judgment, I grab the envelope and open it. Inside are photos - me leaving practice, me at the grocery store, me at my parents’ house last weekend. There are also documents - printouts of my contract, my performance statistics, my family’s addresses and phone numbers.
My brother Mark’s construction company. The school where Tessa works. My parents’ home address in Pleasanton.
Jesus Christ.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Research, Mr. Barnes. We believe in being thorough about our potential business partners.”
“I’m not your business partner.”
“Not yet. But these photos were taken over the past several weeks. Your routines are quite predictable. Your family’s routines as well.” He points to a photo of Mark loading equipment into his truck. “Your brother starts work at seven every morning. Very reliable.”
The threat is clear. They’ve been watching me, watching my family, learning our patterns. And now they’re letting me know how easy it would be to hurt the people I care about.
“You’re threatening my family?” I seethe.
“I’m sharing observations about your family’s daily activities. Whether you interpret that as threatening is up to you.”
“Stay away from them.”
“Of course. As long as our business relationship remains cordial, your family has nothing to worry about.”
“We don’t have a business relationship.”
“We do now.” He pulls out another document from a leather portfolio on the table under his newspaper. It’s a contract, several pages long. “This formalizes our arrangement. Fifty thousand dollars per consultation, as discussed.”
“I’m not signing anything.”
“I think you will. Because the alternative is that your family continues to be observed. And observations sometimes lead to interactions.”
“What kind of interactions?”
“The kind that leaves permanent impressions. The kind that Mr. Christensen experienced when he tried to breach his contract with us.”
Motherfucker. They’re going to hurt my family. Just like they hurt Zane. Just like they’ll hurt anyone who gets in their way.
“What exactly are you asking me to do?”
“Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would attract attention. Simply manage your performance in certain games. Allow specific goals at specific times. Make it look natural.”
“You mean throw games.”
“I mean, manage outcomes in ways that benefit our other business interests.”
“That’s throwing games.”
“That’s consulting on game flow dynamics.” Petrov slides a pen across the table. “The contract outlines the specific terms and expectations.”
I look at the contract, at the photos of my family, at the man sitting across from me with his pleasant smile and his thinly veiled threats.
Zane was right. These people don’t just offer opportunities. They create traps.
He knew, and he was trying to protect me from all of this.
“If I do sign?”
“Then you fulfill your consulting obligations, receive compensation for your work, and your family continues their normal, safe routines.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“Because we’re businessmen, Mr. Barnes. Harming your family serves no purpose once you’re cooperating. It’s bad for business.”
I pick up the pen, the Mont Blanc heavy in my hand. This is it, the moment where I choose between my integrity and my family’s safety. Between doing the right thing and protecting the people I love.
Just like Zane had to choose between protecting me and protecting his father.
No wonder he looked so wrecked when he told me the truth.
“One game,” I say. “I do one job for you, and then we’re done.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. The contract is for ongoing services.”
“How many games?”
“As needed. Could be five, could be fifty. Depends on our business requirements.”
“And if I want out?”
“Then you’ll need to buy out your contract. The current market rate is approximately five hundred thousand dollars.”
Half a million dollars to get free. Money I don’t have, money I’ll never have if I can’t keep my spot.
They’ve thought of everything.
I look at the photos of my family one more time. Mark laughing with Ethan at the barbecue. My parents in their front yard, working in the flower garden. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that their safety depends on my signature on a criminal contract.
I scribble my name at the bottom of the last page, my heart hammering hard against my ribcage.
Petrov smiles and slides the contract back into his portfolio. “Excellent. Welcome to our organization, Mr. Barnes.”
“When do you need me to... ” I grit my teeth. “…consult?”
“Saturday night against Vancouver. We’ll be in touch with specific instructions.” He stands, puts on his coat. “And Mr. Barnes? I trust you understand the confidential nature of our arrangement.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning this stays between us. No coaches, no teammates, no family members. Especially no federal agents who might be interested in our business practices.”
He knows. Somehow, he knows about the FBI investigation.
“I don’t know any federal agents.”
His eyes glitter as he looks down at me. “Of course not. But if you did, I’m sure you’d understand why discretion is so important in our line of work.”
He leaves me sitting there with chest tight and my heart thrashing. Around me, people chat over coffee and pastries, completely oblivious to the fact that someone just sold his soul right next to them.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Saturday 8pm vs Vancouver. 2nd period, 14:23 remaining. Quick glove save that goes wide. Make it look good. - V
They want me to throw the game against Vancouver. Let in a goal at a specific time, in a specific way, while making it look like an honest mistake.
I pocket my phone and walk out of the cafe, wondering how the fuck I’m going to live with myself after I do this.
Did Zane feel this same sick, trapped feeling when he signed his first contract with these people?
I chose this. I walked into their trap with my eyes wide open, thinking I could handle it myself.
Now I get to live with the consequences.
Starting Saturday night.