“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.”
