“I’m not leaving.”
“No, you’re just stepping back. For my own good.” His smile is bitter. “Thanks for that.”
My phone buzzes again with another text.
Don’t make me come looking for you.
“I need to go,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “You do.”
I have my hand on the door handle when he speaks again.
“Zane?”
I slowly turn around.
“Next time you decide to protect someone by pushing them away, maybe lead with that instead of letting them think you actually want them around,” he says. “Nobody likes to be jerked around like an asshole.”
My lips press tight as I leave the room. The door closes behind me with a quiet click that sounds like the end of everything. The ache in my chest is almost too much to bear.
***
Morrison is waiting at the same restaurant, at the same table, with the same impatient expression. I’m ten minutes late, and he doesn’t bother hiding his irritation.
“Appreciate the courtesy of a phone call next time,” he says by way of greeting. “Now sit down. We need to talk.”
I sink into the chair across from him.
“The timeline’s accelerating,” Morrison says, toying with his napkin. “My sources say the syndicate is getting impatient. They want to move on some targets soon.”
“How soon?”
“Weeks, not months.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Which means we need to be ready. I need you to start identifying vulnerable players on the team. Anyone with financial problems, family issues, anything that could make them susceptible to an approach.”
“I’ve already told you, I don’t have any names for you.”
“This isn’t a request, Christensen. You’re not here because I like your sparkling personality. You’re here because your father needs medical care that costs more than you’ll make in tenyears without your NHL salary, and because we both know the alternative to cooperation is a very shallow grave. Foryou.”
The threat is delivered in the same conversational tone he uses to order coffee. This is the reality I live with every day.
“I understand the requirement,” I say.
“Good. Then you’ll understand why I need those names by the end of the week.”
“And if the players don’t take the bait? What if they’re not interested in what the syndicate is selling?”
Morrison’s smile is cold. “Then we make them interested. Create the right kind of pressure, the right kind of desperation. It’s amazing how quickly principles disappear when someone’s back is up against the wall.”
My mind immediately flashes on Tate’s face. He’s under so much pressure with his position hanging in the balance. It would be easy for someone like Morrison to exploit that.
“What kind of pressure?” I ask.
“Whatever works. Bad publicity, family threats, career sabotage. The syndicate has a lot of tools at their disposal.” He finishes his coffee and stands. “Give me those names, Christensen. And remember,” he says. “Your father’s counting on you to make the right choice.”
He leaves me sitting alone at the table, staring at his coffee and wondering how much deeper I can sink into this shit before I drown.
My eyes drop down to my phone. Three missed texts from Tate. But I don’t read them. I can’t handle his words right now, not when Morrison’s threats are still echoing in my head.
