“That’s good. You need someone who understands what you’re going through.” She reaches over to pat my hand. “Someone who can help you get back to where you belong…in that net.”
“Yeah,” I manage. “He’s definitely helping.”
And that’s the truth. Zane is helping me figure out who I am and what I want.
The question is whether I’m brave enough to do anything about it.
TWENTY-THREE
zane
I’ve staredat that anonymous text for the past twelve hours, unable to eat or sleep.
He mentioned you to our friend. Seems proud of his boy, the hockey player. Would hate for anything to change.
Every time I close my eyes, I see my father’s face when he didn’t recognize me. The confusion, the fear, the way he looked at me like I was a stranger.
Frenzied thoughts loop through my mind while I drive to the coffee shop for my meeting with Morrison the next day. I’m twenty minutes early, which gives me time to sit and think about all the ways I’ve made things worse.
My phone has two missed calls from Tate and one text:If you don’t want to talk, just say so.
The message is cold, hurt. He’s pulling back because of how distant I was, and I don’t blame him.
Morrison slides into the chair across from me exactly on time, carrying that same lukewarm coffee and wearing his typical federal agent expression.
“Rough night?” he asks.
“Something like that.”
He opens his folder, slides the same surveillance photos across the table. Tate leaving the arena, Tate at the gas station, Tate going about his normal life.
“We need to move faster,” Morrison says without preamble. “My sources say the syndicate is getting impatient. As I said, they want to make contact within the next two weeks.”
Two weeks. Still the same timeline, but it feels more urgent now.
“They’ve been busy,” he continues. “Three more approaches in the past forty-eight hours - two in Chicago, one in Boston. All failed, which makes your goalie the priority target, based on his game being in the toilet.” Morrison taps Tate’s photo. “They’re running out of options, which means they’re going to get desperate. And desperate criminals make dangerous choices.”
I stare at the photo, at Tate’s face frozen in time. My chest tightens.
“What do you need from me?”
The question sounds flat, defeated, and Morrison’s expression sharpens.
“Those names. Players who might be vulnerable to approach, in case they go after someone other than Barnes. And your full cooperation when they make contact with Barnes.”
“What kind of cooperation?”
“The kind where you make sure he trusts you enough to tell you everything. The kind where you convince him that whatever they’re offering is worth considering.” Morrison leans forward. “The kind where you help us build a case that sticks.”
“And if something goes wrong? If they hurt him?” I ask, my mouth dry.
“Then you’ll have done all you could to prevent it. Which is more than he’ll get if you’re not in position to help.”
“I need guarantees about his safety.”
“You need to stop acting like you have leverage here.” Morrison’s voice cuts. “Your father’s care facility called this morning. Said something about an unauthorized visitor yesterday. Apparently he spent an hour with your father, asking questions about his family.”
The blood drains from my face. “Was he hurt?”
