The fog hovers closer, clouding my brain and fucking up my ability to process what I’m hearing.
“The FBI.”
“This guy named Agent Morrison approached me eight months ago. Said they’d been tracking syndicate activity, knew about my involvement in Detroit, and wanted my cooperation in a sting operation.”
“What kind of cooperation?”
“The kind where I help them identify potential targets and gather evidence for arrests.” His voice drips with bitterness. “The kind where I wear a wire and record conversations and help them build cases against people who fix games.”
“And I’m one of those people?”
“You’re a primary target.”
Primary target. Like I’m some kind of criminal they’ve been hunting.
“I don’t understand.”
“The FBI knew the syndicate was planning to approach you. They planted seeds based on information I gave them. And now they want to use you as bait to catch the syndicate in the act.” He sits back down, but further away this time, and good fucking thing because I want to crack my fist against his jaw right now. “They want to let you get recruited, let you start working for them, and then swoop in with arrests when they have enough evidence.”
“And you agreed to this?”
“I agreed to this because the alternative was going to prison for conspiracy and letting my father die in some state facility where nobody gives a shit if he remembers his own name.”
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists, try to make sense of what he’s telling me. Sweat beads on the back of my neck.
“So when you took the coaching job... ”
“I took the coaching job because Morrison arranged it. Because they needed someone close to you who could monitor your activities and ideally, to build trust so you’d tell me if you were approached.”
“And when we started sleeping together... ”
“When we started sleeping together, I should’ve reported it to Morrison as a complicating factor in the operation.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because somewhere between Vegas and now, I stopped being able to think of you as a target and started thinking of youas... ” His voice trails off, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve been lying to you since the day we met.”
I stand up on wobbly legs. I need to move, need to do something with the rage and hurt that’s rising in my chest. “So everything, the coaching, the relationship, all of it, it’s been bullshit?”
“The coaching is real. You’re a great goalie, Tate. You always were.”
“But the rest of it?”
“The rest of it got fucked up.”
“Fucked up how?” I seethe.
“Fucked up because I fell in love with you.”
The words stop me cold. In the middle of all this betrayal and deception, he throws out love like it means something.
“You fell in love with me.”
“Yeah.”
