“Not physically. But the facility’s concerned about security, about how this person got past their screening process.” Morrison’s smile is cold. “Funny thing is, the visitor knew exactly what questions to ask. Whoever it was knew your father played hockey and that he had a son who played professionally.”
The threat is clear. They’ve been watching, taking notes, preparing to use my father against me if necessary.
“What do you want?”
“I want those names by tomorrow. And I want your word that when they approach Barnes, you’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe. Even if that means letting him think he’s making his own choices.”
I pull out my phone, open a new note, and start typing. The names come harder than they should - weeks of working with these guys, but I barely know them beyond hockey.
Masterson - seems stressed about something, takes calls during breaks
Jaren - mentioned family back home, sends money somewhere
Williams - always checking his phone, looks worried about something
Colby - young, probably has pressure from family about making it
Carter - team captain, stable, but everyone has pressure points
Five names. Five teammates I barely know personally. Five people who trust me.
“There,” I say, sliding the phone across the table. “Five players who might be vulnerable.”
Morrison reads the list and nods. “This is good intel.” He looks up at me. “See how easy cooperation can be?”
“What happens now?”
“Now you go back to being Tate Barnes’s coach. You build that relationship, earn his trust, make sure he sees you as someone he can confide in.” Morrison finishes his coffee and stands to leave. “And when they approach him - and they will - you make sure he calls you first.”
“So I can betray him to you.”
“So you can save his life. There’s a difference, even if you’re too emotional to see it right now.”
“What about my father? What about his safety?”
“Your father’s safety depends on your continued cooperation. Keep being useful, and he keeps getting the best care money can buy. Stop being useful... ” Morrison shrugs. “Well. I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”
He leaves me sitting alone with the surveillance photos. I stare at Tate’s picture until it blurs, thinking about the text messages I ignored last night, the hurt in his voice when he called.
With a heavy heart, I drive to the arena. It’s Saturday afternoon, so the building’s mostly empty. I use my key card to get inside.
The ice is empty. I sit in the stands and stare at the net where Tate usually stands, thinking about how he moves, how he reads shooters, how he trusts me to help him get better.
How he has no idea that trusting me is the most dangerous thing he’s ever done.
My phone rings. I glance at the screen to see Tate’s number, but I let it go to voicemail. Part of me hopes he’ll leave a message, part of me dreads what he might say.
The voicemail notification pops up a minute later. I play it.
“It’s me.” His voice is emotionless and completely deflated. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but we still have work to do. Practice is Monday at ten. Try to show up.”
The line goes dead. No warmth, no concern, just the kind of message you leave for someone who’s being a professional disappointment.
I delete the voicemail and try not to think about the look in his eyes when he finds out the truth. When he realizes that everything he thought he knew about me was carefully constructed fiction designed to get close enough to destroy him.
Two weeks until the syndicate makes contact. Two weeks to figure out how to keep him safe while helping the FBI use him as bait. Two weeks to find a way to live with myself after this is all over.
The arena is quiet, the silence deafening. I sit there until the lights dim, thinking about choices and consequences and the fact that sometimes love isn’t enough to save anyone.
