“Players who’ve hit unexpected obstacles in their careers. Who find themselves struggling with performance issues that traditional coaching methods haven’t been able to address,” he says. “Players who feel like they’re drowning while everyone around them insists they just need to swim harder.”
The metaphor hits way too close to home. That’s exactly what it feels like, as if effort is the only thing standing between me and success. If it fucking was, I’d already be over this.
“How do you know about my situation?”
“I make it my business to identify talented players who might benefit from our services. You’re not the first NHL goaltender to struggle with performance anxiety, Mr. Barnes. And you won’t be the last.”
“And your firm can help with that?”
“We have methods that traditional sports psychology doesn’t explore. Approaches that address not just the mental aspects of performance, but the external pressures that contribute to an athlete’s struggles.” Petrov checks his watch then looks back at me, his light blue eyes crinkling in the corners when his lips turn up into a warm smile. “I’d like to offer you a consultation. No cost, no obligation. Simply an opportunity to discuss what we might be able to do for you.”
No cost, no obligation. The kind of offer that sounds too good to be true, which usually means it is.
“Why me? There are plenty of players struggling out there.”
“Because you have something that can’t be taught…natural ability at the highest level. What you’re experiencing now is temporary and fixable. The question is whether you’re willing to explore unconventional solutions.”
Unconventional solutions. I think about Zane’s coaching methods, how they seemed to help for a while before everything fell apart. About the desperation that comes with watching your career slip away.
“What would this consultation involve?”
“A conversation. An assessment of your current situation and the factors contributing to your issues. A discussion of what help and guidance we might be able to offer.” Petrov’s smile widens. “One meeting, Mr. Barnes. After that, you decide whether our approach might be worth pursuing.”
I stare at the business card, turning the expensive cardstock between my fingers. Part of me knows I should walk away, that meetings with strangers in parking garages never leads anywhere good. But the part of me that’s tired of failing is tempted.
“When?”
“Tomorrow evening, if you’re available. There’s a restaurant downtown that’s quiet, private, good for conversation.” He pulls out his phone, scrolls through what looks like a calendar. “Seven o’clock?”
“I don’t know... ”
“Mr. Barnes, may I speak frankly?” Petrov’s expression turns serious and his smile fades. “I’ve been in this business for twenty years. I’ve worked with Olympic athletes, professional players across multiple sports, individuals who’ve faced challenges that would break most people. I recognize talent, and I know when that talent is being undermined by circumstances beyond the athlete’s control.”
He pauses, letting his words sink in. “What I see when I watch you play is someone who has all the tools for success but is fighting battles that traditional coaching can’t address. Family pressure, media scrutiny, personal relationships that complicate your professional focus.” His voice drops. “The kind of pressures that require more sophisticated solutions.”
Personal relationships. Panic grips me. Does he know about Zane?
“How could you possibly know about my personal life?”
“I make it my business to understand the full scope of an athlete’s challenges. Not to judge or exploit them, but to offer help that addresses root causes rather than just symptoms.” Petrov slides his phone back into his pocket. “One conversation, Mr. Barnes. If you don’t find value in what I have to offer, you walk away with nothing lost but an hour of your time.”
An hour. After months of struggling, of watching my career fall to shit, what’s one hour?
“Which restaurant?”
“Chez Laurent. Downtown, near the financial district. Excellent food.” He checks his watch again. “Does seven o’clock tomorrow evening work for you?”
I should say no. Should thank him politely and walk away, go home and call my agent or my family or someone who actually knows me instead of considering business propositions from strangers in parking garages.
But I don’t do any of those things. I nod.
“Seven o’clock.”
“Excellent.” Petrov shakes my hand again. “I look forward to our conversation, Mr. Barnes. I think you’ll find it enlightening.”
He heads toward a black sedan without another word, leaving me standing in the garage with his business card and a weird sense that I’ve just crossed some kind of line.
I look at the card, then back at the arena where I just embarrassed myself in front of my teammatesagain.My family’s worried, my coach won’t talk to me, and my career is circling the drain.
