Chapter 34 Tate
THIRTY-FOUR
tate
I stare down at my gear bag, trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to get through tomorrow night’s game.
The instructions from Petrov keep looping through my mind. I’ve been practicing the motion in my apartment…diving for a shot that I’ll deliberately miss by inches, making it look like I stretched for it but came up just short.
It should be easy. One mistake, one goal, fifty thousand dollars.
Instead, it feels like I’m selling my soul.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mark.
I shoot off a response, but before I can hit send, a breaking news headline flashes on the television screen.
“This is Channel 7 News with a breaking story. Former AHL player Zane Christensen was critically wounded tonight in an FBI raid on a suspected organized crime operation in San Francisco’s Mission District... ”
I drop my phone, grab the remote, and turn up the volume. My heart leaps into my throat.
“ ...Christensen, who played in the minors in Detroit before a career-ending injury, was reportedly working undercover with federal agents to investigate alleged game-fixing by a Russian crime syndicate. He was shot during the operation but is expected to survive.”
My legs buckle. I collapse onto my couch, gaping at the screen as footage of Zane in his Detroit uniform, making saves, flashes on the screen.
“Christensen was taken to UCSF Medical Center in critical condition. FBI sources confirm that his cooperation led to the arrests of multiple suspects, including Mikhail Volkov and Viktor Petrov, the reputed heads of the organization, in what they’re calling one of the largest sports gambling conspiracies in recent history. .. ”
Critical condition.
He went back to the people who destroyed his career, wore a wire, and got shot.
Jesus Christ, did he do this to protect me?
My phone rings. Coach Enver’s name flashes on the screen.
“Barnes, you watching the news?”
“Yeah.”
“Hell of a thing. Your goalie coach turns out to be some kind of undercover hero.” His voice is grim. “Thought you should know. The team’s putting out a statement tomorrow. Supporting law enforcement, zero tolerance for gambling corruption, all that.”
“Coach?”
“Yeah?”
“Is he going to be okay?”
Enver sighs. “Don’t know. News said he’s in critical condition, which usually means touch and go.” A pause. “I guess you two got close, working together.”
Close. If only he knew.
“Yeah, we were close,” I manage to choke out through the lump in my throat.
“Well, keep your head up. Focus on tomorrow’s game. Vancouver’s going to be tough.”
The game. Against Vancouver. Where I was supposed to let in a goal for the organization that just got crushed by the man I told I never wanted to see again.
“I’ll be ready.”
“Good. Get some rest.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, then at the television screen where they’re still showing Zane’s picture.
Fuck this. I need to get to the hospital.
Now.
UCSF Medical Center is a maze of corridors and waiting rooms. I find the ICU on the fourth floor and follow signs that lead me to a nurses’ station where a tired-looking woman in scrubs looks up from her computer.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Zane Christensen. He was brought in tonight.”
“Are you family?”
“I’m... ” What am I? His ex-boyfriend? His former student? The person he nearly died protecting? “I’m his emergency contact.”
It’s a lie, but she doesn’t check. “He’s in the ICU, room 417. But he’s not conscious right now.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“The doctors are optimistic, but it’s still touch and go. The bullet did significant damage.”
I head toward the ICU on unsteady legs, counting room numbers until I reach 417. The door’s partially open, and his bed is surrounded by machines and tubes, the steady beeping of monitors pounding between my ears.
And Zane is in the middle of it all, unconscious in that hospital bed.
There’s a man in a suit sitting in the corner chair. He looks up when I enter.
“You’re Barnes.”
“Yeah.”
“Agent Morrison. FBI.” He stands, extends his hand. “I was hoping you’d show up.”
“Why?”
“Because he volunteered for this operation specifically to protect you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean when our original investigation got compromised, when it looked like we’d have to abandon the case, Christensen came to me with a proposal.” Morrison gestures toward the bed. “Said he’d go back to the syndicate, wear a wire, get us everything we needed for convictions.”
“Why would he do that?”
“You tell me. What would make a man risk his life to protect someone who told him they never wanted to see him again?”
I look at Zane, at the tubes and wires keeping him alive, and I know the answer.
Love. Real love. The kind that doesn’t count the cost.
“He could have died.”
“He nearly did die. The bullet missed his heart by two inches.” Morrison picks up his jacket from the chair.
“But he got us everything we needed. Recorded confessions, admission of past crimes, details about their entire operation. Because of what he did tonight, Mikhail Volkov and his organization are finished.”
“What about the players they were targeting?” I force the words out, my pulse throbbing.
“Safe. All of them. The syndicate’s done, their files are evidence, their threats are meaningless.” He looks at me directly. “Whatever hold they had on you, it’s over.”
Whatever hold they had on me. He knows. He knows about the contract, about the threats, about tomorrow’s game.
“How long have you known?”
“About your situation? For some time. And after the raid on the syndicate, we found records of your meeting with Petrov, copies of the contract you signed, photos of your family.” Morrison’s voice gets softer.
“Christensen didn’t know about any of that when he volunteered for this operation.
He just knew the syndicate was still out there, still targeting people, including you, and he couldn’t live with them hurting you. ”
“So he nearly got himself killed.”
“He nearly got himself killed because he wanted to protect you more than himself.” Morrison heads for the door and pauses before leaving. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with Zane and the bleeping machines keeping him alive.
I pull the chair closer to his bed, sit down, and take his hand in my trembling one. It’s warm, which seems impossible given how pale he looks.
“You stupid idiot,” I whisper, my throat tight. “You nearly died.”
No response except the machines.
“I told you we were done. I told you I never wanted to see you again. And you still did this.”
The beeping makes my ears ring, but he still doesn’t move.
“Why? Why would you risk everything for someone who walked away from you?”
I think about our last conversation in that parking garage. About the hurt in his face when I told him not to use the word love like it meant something. About how I accused him of betraying me when he was trying to protect me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I’m sorry I walked away. I’m sorry it took you getting shot for me to realize that you were telling the truth about loving me.”
The monitors keep beeping. Zane keeps breathing with help from the ventilator. And I keep holding his hand, hoping he can somehow hear me.
“The contract’s void, by the way. Morrison says the syndicate’s finished, which means I don’t have to throw tomorrow’s game. I don’t have to do any of it.” I lean closer. “You saved me. Again. Even after I told you I was done with you.”
A nurse comes in to check his vitals, adjusts something on one of the machines.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Stable for now. The next twenty-four hours are critical.” She looks at me sympathetically. “Are you staying the night?”
“If that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
She leaves, and I settle back into the chair, still holding his hand.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” I say quietly. “But I need you to know something. I need you to know that I was wrong. About all of it. About the lying, about the FBI, about you not trusting me with the truth.”
The ventilator hisses softly.
“I understand now why you made the choices you made. And I understand that everything you did was to protect people you cared about. Including me.” I squeeze his hand gently. “Especially me.”
His face is still, peaceful in a way that scares me. Like he’s already somewhere else.
“Please don’t leave me,” I whisper, a tear slipping down my face. “Not now. Not when I finally understand what you were trying to tell me.”
The machines keep their steady rhythm. The night stretches ahead, long and uncertain.
I hold his hand and pray to a God I’m not sure I believe in that the man I love will open his eyes again.
Because I’m not ready to say goodbye.