Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
zane
Everything hurts.
That’s the first thing I realize when I swim back to consciousness. Not the tubes down my throat, not the machines beeping around me, not the bright lights. Just pain, everywhere, like someone took a sledgehammer to my entire body.
But I’m alive.
Which is more than I expected when Alexei pointed that gun at my chest.
I try to move, but my body doesn’t want to cooperate. My lips, cracked and dry, part so I can speak, but something in my throat prevents sound from forming. I squint in the bright overhead light, my vision blurred.
“He’s waking up.”
A woman’s voice. I blink a few times, trying to focus.
“Mr. Christensen? Can you hear me?”
I try to nod, but my head feels like a cement block.
“I’m Dr. Gandolfo. You’re in the hospital. You’ve been in surgery, but you’re going to be fine.”
Surgery. Right. The memories flare. The warehouse, the wire, Volkov’s cold smile when Alexei found the recording device. I remember the gunshot, hitting the wall, the world going dark.
“We’re going to remove the breathing tube now. This might be uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable is an understatement. It feels like they’re pulling my lungs out through my mouth. But then I take a breath on my own, feeling the air move in and out without any help.
“How do you feel?”
“Like hell,” I manage to croak out, my mouth bone-dry.
“That’s normal. You’ve been through a lot.” Dr. Gandolfo checks a reading on one of the machines. “There’s someone here who’s been waiting to see you. Are you up for a visitor?”
“Who?”
“Tate Barnes.”
Tate’s here. After everything I put him through, after the way we left things in that parking garage, he’s here.
“Yeah,” I rasp. “Yeah, I want to see him.”
Dr. Gandolfo nods, then disappears. A few minutes later, the door opens. Tate walks in, and he looks worse than I feel. Unshaven and in rumpled clothes, his eyes red-rimmed like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.”
He sinks down on the chair next to my bed, and for a long minute, we just look at each other. Finally, I speak.
“How did you find out I was here?” I ask.
“Coach Enver called me when the news broke. I also saw the reports on television. I came here as fast as I could.” He pauses.
“That was a day and a half ago. You had complications and internal bleeding. They had to operate again. I…I didn’t know if I’d ever get to talk to you again.
” His voice breaks a little for that last bit.
“I’m sorry,” I croak out.
“For what?”
“For scaring you. For nearly dying. For putting you through this.”
His eyebrows fly upward. “Don’t apologize for nearly dying. Apologize for being stupid enough to wear a wire into a meeting with criminals who kill people.”
“I had to.”
“No, you didn’t. You chose to.”
“Did it work?”
“What?”
“The FBI mission. Did we get them?”
“Yeah. Volkov, Petrov, and their whole crew. Morrison says the recordings you made were enough for RICO charges. The whole organization’s finished.”
I let out a slow breath. “Good.”
“Good? You nearly died, Zane. You nearly fucking died, and all you can say is good?”
“I nearly died, but you’re safe. The syndicate’s gone, you don’t have to throw any games, your family’s not in danger.” I try to sit up, and yelp at the pain that shoots through my chest. “That’s more than good. That’s everything I wanted.”
“What about what I wanted?”
I furrow my brows at him.
“I wanted you to not get shot. I wanted you to not nearly die trying to save me from a mess I made myself.” He wrings his hands together. “I wanted you to trust me enough to let me help instead of trying to handle everything alone.”
“I couldn’t risk you.”
“You couldn’t risk me what?”
“Getting hurt. Getting killed. Getting involved with federal investigations and criminal syndicates and all the shit that comes with my fucked-up life. You have too much going for you.”
“That wasn’t your choice to make.”
“Yeah, it was. Because I love you, and people protect the people they love.”
“I love you too,” he says quietly.
I blink, wondering if the painkillers are making me hallucinate.
“What?”
“I said I love you, too. I should have said it in that parking garage instead of telling you we were done. I should have said it when you were trying to explain why you made the choices you made.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I was scared and angry and hurt, and I thought you were just using that word to justify lying to me.”
“I wasn’t lying about my feelings.”
“I know. I figured that out when you nearly died trying to protect me.”
“So what now?” My fingers creep over to the side of the bed where he sits and I grip the sheet, waiting for his response.
“Now you get better and we figure out how to be together without federal investigations and criminal syndicates and all the other bullshit.”
“What if there’s more bullshit? What if my life is just complicated and dangerous and not worth the trouble?”
“Then we’ll deal with it. If you want that.”
“What about your family? Your team? Do they know about us?”
“They know.”
“And?”
His lips curl up into a smile. “And they’re okay with it.
More than okay. My parents said they just want me to be happy.
My teammates said they don’t care who I’m sleeping with as long as I’m stopping pucks.
” He nods toward the door. “Half the team’s in the waiting room right now.
They’ve been here since yesterday, waiting for you to wake up. ”
Tate stands up and covers my hand with his.
“Morrison was here too,” he says. “While you were unconscious. He wanted me to tell you that your father’s medical care is taken care of. The government’s covering it indefinitely, as a thank you for your service.”
“My father?”
“He’s going to get the best care available for as long as he needs it. Morrison said it’s the least they can do for someone who risked his life to take down a criminal organization.”
I think about my father.
It’s over. All of it.
My eyes sting.
“Are you crying?” Tate asks, brushing his fingers down the side of my face.
“The light’s too bright,” I lie, blinking fast.
“Bullshit. You’re crying.”
“Yeah, I’m crying. Sue me.”
He takes my hand, squeezes it carefully. “It’s okay to cry. You’ve been through hell.”
“We both have.”
He leans closer and grazes my forehead with his lips. “But we made it.”
There’s a swift knock at the door. It opens and Morrison walks in, all business as usual. He’s carrying a folder and wearing the same cheap suit he always wears. His expression is different, though. Less predatory, more respectful.
“Christensen. Good to see you awake,” he says with a grin. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got shot.”
“Yep. Doing something incredibly stupid and incredibly brave.” He sets the folder on the bedside table. “The recordings you made are going to put Viktor Petrov and Mikhail Volkov away for the rest of their lives. Them and about twenty other people in their organization.”
I relax against the pillow. “Good.”
“We found records of game fixes going back fifteen years. Players in six different cities, hundreds of games, millions of dollars in illegal gambling profits. Your recordings broke the whole thing open.”
“What about the players they corrupted?”
“Most of them were coerced, same as you were. We’re working out immunity deals for anyone who cooperates with the investigation.”
“And the ones who won’t cooperate?”
He shrugs. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But the important thing is that the organization is finished. They won’t be threatening anyone else’s family, they won’t be corrupting any more games.”
“What about me? Am I going to face charges for what I did in Detroit?”
“What charges? As far as I’m concerned, you were an undercover asset working to bring down a criminal organization. Everything you did was in service of that investigation.” He winks.
Morrison heads for the door and then stops to turn around.
“Oh, one more thing, Christensen.”
“What?”
“Thank you. What you did took balls of steel. You saved a lot of people from going through what you went through.”
He leaves, and I’m alone with Tate again.
“So,” Tate says. “It’s really over.”
“It’s really over.”
“And we’re really okay.”
“We’re really okay.”
“Good. Because my parents are very anxious to meet you.”
“Really?”
Tate nods. “Yup. They want to thank you. For protecting me, for taking down the syndicate, for being willing to die for me.”
“I didn’t die.”
“No, you didn’t. But you were willing to, and that means something to them.”
“It means something to me, too.”
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“It means I get to keep you.”
“Yeah,” Tate says, bringing my hand to his lips. “You get to keep me.”
“Even though I’m fucked up and complicated and apparently make terrible decisions under pressure?”
“Especially because of that.”
“Why?”
“Because fucked up and complicated people need love too. Maybe more than anyone else.”
I close my eyes, the weight of the last two years lifting off my chest. Christ, I can finally live without constantly looking over my shoulder, worrying about danger lurking, ready to pounce.
The lies, the fear, the impossible choices - all of it’s over.
My father’s taken care of, the syndicate’s destroyed, and the man I love is sitting next to my hospital bed telling me he wants to keep me.
The door opens again, and Dr. Gandolfo comes back in.
“Sorry to interrupt, but there are a lot of people in the waiting room asking when they can see you.”
Tate grins. “Told you. They all want to see the hero who took down a criminal organization.”
“I’m not a hero.”
“You are to them. And to me.”
Dr. Gandolfo checks my chart. “You’re stable enough for short visits, if you’re up for it.”
I look at Tate, at this man who I thought I’d lost forever, who’s here holding my hand and talking about family dinners and teammates who want to thank me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m up for it.”
As Dr. Gandolfo leaves to get the others, Tate leans over and kisses my forehead.
“Welcome to the beginning of our future,” he whispers.