The breath leaves my body. “What?” I rasp.
“They approached me three years ago, back when I was playing in Detroit. My team was struggling, I was struggling, and I had piles of medical bills I couldn’t pay.” His voice is flat. “A guy named Mikhail Volkov found me at a bar after a really crushing loss. Bought me drinks, listened to my problems.” He sighs. “Then he offered to help.”
“Help how?”
“Fifty thousand dollars to let in a few goals at specific times. Make it look natural, make it look like bad luck or poor positioning. Nothing too obvious.”
The exact amount Petrov offered me.
“And you took it.”
“I took it.” He still won’t look at me and I just want to reach out and grab his chin so he has no choice. But instead, I keep listening. “And then they had me. Photos, recordings, bank records showing the payments I’d received. One job turned into two, then five, then a dozen. By the time I realized what I’d gotten into, it was too late to get out.”
“So you kept doing it.”
“I kept doing it. Until I tried to walk away.” His voice hardens, jaw tight. “Told them I was done, that I’d rather take my chances with exposure than keep throwing games. So they had someone take out my knee during practice. Made it look like an accident.”
“They ended your career.” My mouth dries up like I just swallowed a bucket of sand.
“Yes. They made sure I could never play professionally again.” He finally turns to look at me. “You want to know why I really became a coach? Because it was the only way to stay in hockey after they destroyed my playing career as punishment for not playing by their rules.”
The fog’s getting thicker, snaking around my throat and squeezing hard, like an invisible hand.
Petrov’s hand.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Everything.” His voice drops. “The people who contacted you, probably Viktor Petrov, they’re part of the same group who owned me in Detroit. And they didn’t find you randomly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they’ve been watching you for months. Studying your game, your finances, your family, your weaknesses. Learning everything they could about Tate Barnes so they could craft the perfect approach to suck you into their trap.” Hepauses. “That’s how they work. They research targets thoroughly before making contact.”
My heart stills. “How do you know that?”
“Because someone’s been feeding them information.”
“Who?”
The silence hangs, and I can see him struggling.
“Zane, who’s been feeding them information?” I slap my hand against the barrier. “Answer me, dammit.”
And then he finally does. But part of me wishes he didn’t.
“Me.”
“Why?” The word comes out strangled. “Why would you do that?”
“Because if I didn’t, my father would lose his medical care and I’d go to prison.” He stands up and starts pacing in front of me. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“Then explain it to me. Because right now it sounds like you’ve been setting me up to get destroyed by the same people who destroyed you.”
“I have been setting you up. But not for them.”
“Then for who?”
He stops pacing, looks directly at me. “The FBI.”
