And for once, I wasn’t thinking about hockey or syndicates or the perpetual fear gnawing at my gut. I was thinking about how lost he looked, how something in his eyes called to the broken parts of me. For a few hours, I let myself forget that I was a marked man.
The connection we had that night was real. More real than anything I’d felt in years, which made leaving even more devastating. But I didn’t have a choice. When my phone rang at six in the morning with news that my former syndicate associates had tracked me to Vegas, I had almost no time to disappear before they found me.
Before they found him with me.
I chose his safety over an explanation. Not that he’d see it that way.
“Mr. Christensen?”
I turn and see a middle-aged woman in a blazer approaching from behind the reception desk. “I’m Patricia, Coach Enver’s assistant. He’s ready for you.”
“Lead the way.”
I follow her down a hallway lined with photos and trophies, my mind racing through the implications of this assignment. Working with Tate Barnes was always going to be complicated, but I’d assumed I could maintain professional distance while I focused on identifying potential syndicate targets, gathered evidence of their operations, and stayed detached.
Now I realize how fucking stupid that assumption was.
She knocks on Coach Enver’s office door and he calls her in. I follow her into the room lined with whiteboards covered in plays and statistics. The desk in the center of the room is piled high with papers and folders. Two coffee cups sit on either side of the mess.
“I appreciate you taking this position on such short notice,” he says, gesturing for me to sit across from his desk after shaking my hand. “Barnes is a good kid, but something’s got him twisted up. He needs some help to work through it.”
“What’s your read on him?” I ask, pulling out a notebook.
“Mental. He’s got the physical tools, always has. But lately he’s hesitating on routine saves, second-guessing himself. Last night, he let in a goal that my grandmother could have stopped.”
I nod, making notes while my mind processes the information. Performance anxiety could be genuine, or it could be a sign that someone’s already gotten to him. The syndicate’s preferred method is psychological pressure before they move to direct threats. That’s how they started with me.
“Any external factors? Personal issues, financial concerns?”
“Nothing obvious. Good kid from a working-class family, close with his teammates. No girlfriend, but that’s not unusual for players his age.” Enver pauses, studying my face. “What’s your usual approach to this kind of situation?”
“Build trust first. I need to understand what’s driving the mental blocks before we work on technical issues on the ice.” The lies come easily now, polished by years of playing a role that will hopefully keep me alive. “Young goalies often struggle with the pressure of being the last line of defense. It can become overwhelming.”
“That’s what I figured. I have a meeting scheduled with the team in ten minutes. I’ll introduce you, then you can start getting a feel for the dynamics.”
Enver stands, and I follow his lead, my knee screaming as I stand. The hallway to the conference room feels longer than it should, each step bringing me closer to the confrontation I’ve been dreading ever since I found out about this assignment.
The conference room is already half full when we step inside. Players walk in with the casual confidence that comes from being among the most elite athletes in the world. I recognize faces from my research, half-expecting to see ghosts from Detroit. Carter van Kleef, the captain who oozes leadership, Jack Larson, a.k.a The Ice King, Cam Foster, the hotshot winger with sharp eyes that don’t miss a damn thing on the ice, Ryan Keating, whose reputation for causing trouble preceded him when he came to Oakland.
And then Tate walks in.
He looks older than he did in Vegas, more filled out through the shoulders and chest. He should have the confidence that comes from four years as an NHL starter, but instead I see the same lost look that drew me to him that night.
He takes a seat near the back, not making eye contact with anyone. The flirtatious, vulnerable man I held in that hotel room is nowhere to be seen. This version of Tate Barnes is defensive, wrapped in layers of barbed wire that I’m pretty sure I helped create when I disappeared without explanation.
“Gentlemen,” Coach Enver begins, rapping his hand on the table. The guys quiet immediately. “I want to introduce Zane Christensen, our new coach. Zane comes to us with extensive experience working with professional goaltenders.”
I stand, forcing myself to project calm confidence while my heart pounds in my chest. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you. My focus will be primarily on goaltending technique and mental preparation, but I’ll be observing team dynamics as well.”
My eyes sweep the room, carefully avoiding direct contact with Tate until the very end. When my gaze finally lands on him, I fight the urge to recoil. His hazel eyes swirl with barely contained fury mixed with hurt that cuts deep.
He recognizes me. Of course he fucking does. The question is whether he’ll call me out in front of the team or wait for privacy.
“Any questions?” I ask the room.
A tense silence falls over the room for several seconds. Then Tate’s hand rises.
“Yeah, I’ve got a question.” His voice is steady, but I can hear the deep rumble of anger underneath. “What exactly makes you think you’re qualified to fix someone else’s problems?”
