I scrub a hand down the front of my face.
Vegas.
There was a reason why we were there in the same place, why we found each other. It was the first right thing I’d done in a damn long time, even though it turned out to be wrong on so many levels.
Morrison shows up at exactly seven o’clock, sliding into the seat across from me. Everything about the guy is designed to be forgettable - average height, brown hair, gray suit that could have come from any department store. The kind of man you’d walk past on the street without a second glance.
Except for his eyes. They see everything.
He signals the server. “How’s the coaching job working out?”
“It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Morrison’s eyebrows raise. “That’s not what I’m hearing from my sources.”
My pulse jumps. “What sources?”
“The kind that pays attention when a struggling NHL goalie suddenly starts improving at a private practice after weeks of looking like he belongs in a beer league.” Morrison leans back in his chair. “Interesting development, don’t you think?”
“Players have good days and bad days. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it means you’re getting too close to your assignment.”
I should deny it, but he probably already knows.
“What do you want, Morrison?”
“Results. It’s been weeks, and you’ve given me nothing useful. No potential targets, no vulnerabilities, no intelligence I can use.”
“There’s nothing to give you. These players aren’t criminals. They’re not looking to make deals with betting syndicates.”
“Everyone’s looking to make a deal if the price is right and the pressure’s high enough.” Morrison’s voice drops. “The syndicate’s been quiet for too long. That means they’re planning something, and Oakland’s the most likely target. When they make their move, I need to be ready.”
“And if they don’t make a move?”
“They will. These people don’t just disappear. They regroup, they adapt, they find new ways to make money. And right now, sports betting is a billion-dollar industry with too much money and not enough oversight.”
The server takes his drink order, and Morrison waits until she’s gone before continuing.
“I’ve been reviewing the Oakland roster,” he says, pulling out a tablet. “Interesting group of guys. Young core, lots of potential, but also lots of pressure. Contract years, performance anxiety, family obligations.”
He turns the tablet toward me, Tate’s photo open on the screen. My breath hitches.
“Barnes, for instance. The guy you are supposed to be watching closely. Four-year veteran having the worst stretch of his career. And it’s a contract year. His performance issues started before you showed up but lately they seem to be getting worse.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that struggling players make attractive targets. Someone in his position might be open to suggestions about how to improve his game. Performance enhancers, insider information, connections with people who could help his career.”
“Tate’s not that kind of player.”
The words come out harder than I intended, and Morrison’s eyes narrow.
“Tate? Interesting that you’re on a first-name basis with a target.”
Fuck. I’ve been thinking of him as Tate for so long that I forgot Morrison would notice.
“All the coaches use first names with players. It’s not unusual.”
