Especially when the person you love doesn’t know he needs saving.
TWENTY-FOUR
tate
Practice today was a fucking disaster.
I let in five goals in forty minutes, including one that went through my legs so clean you could have driven a truck through the goddamn gap. Coach Enver pulled me after the second period, and I spent the rest of the session watching Parker make saves that I should have been able to make blindfolded.
“Don’t worry, bro,” Masterson says as we skate off the ice. “You’re gonna get it back. Keep the faith.”
But am I? Really? And when the fuck it is gonna magically happen? This isn’t an isolated incident. It’s the continuation of a months-long downward spiral that’s threatening to end my career before I turn thirty.
The locker room clears out faster than usual. Nobody wants to stick around and watch me fall apart, and I don’t blame them. I sit in front of my stall, still in full gear, staring at my phone and the text I sent Zane two hours ago that he hasn’t answered.
Need to talk. Something’s not working.
Nothing. Not even a read receipt. Just the same cold silence I’ve been getting from him since my family’s barbecue.
I strip out of my gear, my muscles aching from tension. The shower is empty, which means I can stand under the scalding water and try to figure out how things went to shit so fast.
Two weeks ago, I was making progress. Working with Zane, feeling like maybe I could claw my way back to where I belonged. Now I’m watching a rookie play my position while my coach won’t even return my calls.
The parking garage is empty when I finally drag myself out of the facility. Late afternoon sun streams through slats in the concrete structure. I’m halfway to my car when someone calls my name.
“Tate Barnes?”
I turn to find a man who looks to be in his fifties walking toward me. He’s wearing an expensive suit, and he walks like he knows he’s hot shit. He looks familiar, too, but I can’t place where I might have seen him before.
“Do I know you?” I ask, keys gripped in my hand in case this goes sideways and I need to gouge out his eyes or something.
“Viktor Petrov.” He reaches a hand out and I shake it. “Sorry for approaching you like this, but I’ve been hoping for a chance to speak with you.”
The accent is slight but unmistakable. Russian. In hockey, that could mean anything from former player to team scout to agent looking for new clients.
“About what?”
“Your career. Your potential.” He gestures toward the arena behind us. “I’ve been watching your games, Mr. Barnes. Both the ones where you’ve played and the ones where you haven’t.”
The observation stings.
“Yeah?”
He nods. “I see tremendous talent being wasted. A player whose abilities far exceed his current circumstances.” Petrov’sexpression is sympathetic. “I also see someone who might benefit from a different kind of support system.”
Support system. Tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle, like he knows something about my situation, about the pressure I’m under.
“What kind of support are we talking about?”
“The kind that understands professional athletes facing unique challenges. Performance anxiety, media pressure, family expectations.” He lists them like he’s reading from my personal file. “The kind that offers practical solutions instead of empty encouragement.”
My brows furrow. “What, like sports psychology?”
“Among other things.” Petrov reaches into his jacket and pulls out a business card. “I work with a consulting firm that specializes in helping professional athletes maximize their potential. We’ve had considerable success with players in situations similar to yours.”
I take the card.Petrov Consulting - Athletic Performance Solutions.No address, just a phone number and email.
“What kind of situations?”
