Maybe it’s time to try something unconventional. Whatever the hell that means.
I slip the card into my wallet and drive home. I don’t know how Petrov knows as much as he does and I should probably focus on that but I’m so fucking desperate right now, I can only focus on the lifeline he basically promised.
Even though every instinct I have is screaming that this is a mistake.
TWENTY-FIVE
zane
Havingdinner with Coach Enver is the last thing I want to be doing tonight but since I need to keep this job while I figure out how to not completely fuck up my life and anyone else’s, I agree to meet at Chez Laurent.
“Coach Kowalski and Bob Marshall will join us, too,” he’d said after practice. “We want to discuss some player evaluations and get your take on where things stand.”
Player evaluation discussion with the coaching staff and the GM. Translation: they want to talk about Tate’s issues and whether my coaching methods are worth a damn. Perfect timing, considering I spent the afternoon watching him give up five goals anyone with half an eye could have stopped.
Chez Laurent is one of those upscale places downtown where business gets done over expensive wine and steaks that cost more than most people make in a day.
I’m fifteen minutes early, which gives me time to sit at the bar and get my head screwed on straight. My phone has two voicemails from Morrison that I haven’t responded to, both asking for updates on “the situation.” As if I have any fucking control over when the syndicate decides to make their move.
The anonymous texts about my father stopped yesterday, but the radio silence makes things worse because I know I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Zane,” Enver’s voice cuts through my spiral. I slant a look over my shoulder. He’s walking over with Frank Kowalski andtheBob Marshall. Three men whose opinions could make or break this career, so I need to smile and try to act normal.
I shake hands with each of them, noting Bob’s firm grip.
“Thanks for joining us, Zane,” Bob says as we’re led to a corner table with a view of the main dining room. “Coach Enver tells me you’ve been working closely with one of our struggling players. We’re interested in your perspective on his performance.”
“Happy to help however I can,” I say, sinking into my chair as the knot in my stomach tightens.
A server walks over with menus. Bob orders wine while I scan the room, my skin crawling with unease.
And then I see him.
Tate. At a table across the dining room, sitting with a man in an expensive suit who’s leaning forward like he’s engrossed in their conversation. The man is older and good-looking for a fleeting second, my heart clenches. Then I look harder.
Shit.
Tate isn’t on a date.
I sit up straighter, my throat closing.
I know that posture, the hand motions, the earnest, understanding expression. I sat across from it myself, years ago, when I was desperate and scared and looking for someone to throw me a lifeline.
The man talking to Tate isn’t just any businessman. He’s a recruiter. Someone who makes his living identifying vulnerable athletes and turning them into assets.
“So, Zane, what’s your assessment of Barnes’s recent performance?” Bob’s question forces me to drag my attention back to the table, even though every instinct is screaming at me to get up and walk over to Tate’s table, to stop whatever the hell is happening over there. Because judging by the way Tate is hanging on the guy’s every word, it’s not good.
“He’s going through a rough patch,” I manage. “Performance anxiety is common in goalies. The position requires precise mental focus, so any disruption can affect everything.”
I keep Tate and the guy in my periphery. Tate leans in, completely sucked into what he’s being told, and I can see the hope in his expression even from across the room.
Fuck. This is happening. It’s actually happening.
“Rough patch is generous,” Frank says, taking a roll from the basket. “Five goals in forty minutes today. That’s not anxiety, that’s a fundamental breakdown.”
“Every goaltender goes through periods where nothing seems to work,” I argue, a sliver of my attention on the recruitment happening fifty feet away. “Patrick Roy had stretches where he couldn’t stop a beach ball. Jonathan Quick went through a season where people questioned if he was done. And you know how those guys overcame their issues. The talent is still there, trust me on that.”
“But is the mental fortitude?” Bob asks. “Because talent without consistency isn’t of much use to us. We need to know our goaltenders can handle pressure, especially in critical situations.”
