“Barnes? I know this feels like failure, but it’s not. Even the best players need tune-ups sometimes. The smart ones accept help when it’s offered.”
“Right.”
I leave his office, shoulders slumped, feeling worse than when I went in. The hallway seems longer on the way back, my footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. By the time I reach the locker room, it’s mostly empty except for a few guys finishing up their showers.
I grab my bag and head for the exit, not in the mood for any more well-meaning teammate conversations. The VIP parking garage is nearly deserted, just a few cars scattered under the fluorescent lights.
My phone buzzes again as I unlock my car. It’s a text from Rex asking me to call him tomorrow. Because apparently this day can still get worse.
Maybe Enver has already contacted him. Maybe this really is the beginning of the end.
I toss my bag in the backseat and slide behind the wheel, but I don’t start the engine. Instead, I sit in the silence, trying to work through everything that just happened.
A goalie coach. Like I’m some clueless rookie who doesn’t know how to protect his spot.
The worst part is, maybe I do need help. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself about being able to fix this on my own. The thought makes my chest ache with something that feels dangerously close to panic.
I finally start the car and pull out of the garage. City lights blur past as I drive toward my house. Tomorrow I’ll meet this fucking Zane Christensen and pretend to be grateful to stay in Enver’s good graces.
Tonight, I just want to forget this whole fucking day ever happened.
But as I sit at a red light, watching late-night traffic zoom past me, I can’t shake the feeling that everything is about to change.
And I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
TWO
zane
The coffeeI grabbed from a nearby deli tastes like crap, but I need the caffeine more than I need flavor right now.
I sit in a rented Honda Accord outside the Oakland Raptors’ practice facility, watching early morning joggers pass by on the sidewalk. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that their local hockey team is about to become the center of an FBI operation designed to bring down one of the most dangerous sports betting syndicates on the West Coast.
My phone buzzes with a text from Agent Morrison, my handler.
Meeting confirmed for 10 AM. Remember, you’re just a goalie coach. Nothing more.
Right. Just a goalie coach who happens to have extensive knowledge of the same illegal gambling operations that destroyed my playing career and nearly got me killed. Nothing suspicious about that at all.
I drain the rest of the coffee and check the time. Nine-forty-five. Almost showtime.
The practice facility is impressive, all glass and steel designed to project success and professionalism. I scan the parking lot,making a mental note of exit routes and surveillance positions. Old habits from my time in hiding die hard.
My knee twinges as I get out of the car, a permanent reminder of what happens when you cross people who don’t believe in second chances. The syndicate made sure my playing career ended brutally, and if they discover I’m working with the FBI now, that busted knee will be the least of my problems.
The lobby is pristine, with championship banners hanging from the ceiling and photos of current players lining the white walls. I recognize most of the faces from the files Morrison gave me, but my eyes linger on one photo.
Tate Barnes. Number 31. Oakland’s starting goaltender for the past four years.
The same Tate Barnes I held in my arms in a Vegas hotel room two years ago, before my world collapsed and I had to disappear like a fucking coward.
When Morrison first briefed me on this assignment, he mentioned Oakland was being targeted by the same syndicate that destroyed my life. The irony was bitter enough. What he didn’t mention was that the team’s starting goalie was someone whose trust I’d already shattered when I was too scared and broken to stay and explain why I had to leave him.
Back then, I’d been hiding in Vegas for a few months after the syndicate’s “message” to my knee made it clear that my playing days were over. They didn’t appreciate my attempts to cut ties and wanted to make me understand through immense pain what happens when you don’t uphold your end of a bargain.So I spent my time jumping from hotel to hotel, paying cash, constantly looking over my shoulder. That became my life when I found out that escaping the wrong people isn’t as simple as saying “go fuck yourself.”
The FBI found me eventually and offered me a choice that wasn’t really a choice. Cooperate with their investigation orface charges for my involvement in criminal operations I’d tried desperately to escape. Self-preservation won out over pride. It always does.
When I saw Tate at that bar that night, I recognized him immediately. A two-year Oakland player, young for a starter but already establishing himself as one of the league’s most promising goalies.
