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?”
