My eyes flicker back to Tate’s table.
The man with Tate slides something across the table, probably a business card, the same move every recruiter makes when they’re ready to transition from assessment to proposition.
Fuck. He hasn’t shut the situation down.
Tate takes it, studies it, and I watch him shift from cautious interest to genuine consideration.
“Zane?” Enver’s voice has an edge that suggests he’s noticed my distraction. “You seem preoccupied.”
“Sorry. Just thinking about Barnes’s development.” I force myself to make eye contact.
Sweat pebbles on the back of my neck, panic assaulting my mind. What if Morrison’s team is outside, waiting to swoop in?
“I think with the right support, he can regain his form. He’s got natural talent you can’t teach,” I say.
“Natural talent is only valuable if it translates to wins,” Frank points out. “And right now, we’re not seeing that.”
I force myself to stay seated even though every part of me wants to run over to Tate and drag him away from that damn table. I lived through this exact scenario three years ago. Different restaurant, different recruiter, same predatory patience. Volkov had been just as smooth, just as understanding, just as willing to offer solutions to problems that “traditional channels” couldn’t address.
And I’d been just as desperate as Tate looks right now.
“What about his personal life?” Bob asks before taking a bite of bread. “Sometimes off-ice issues affect on-ice performance. Family problems, relationship drama, financial stress.”
The irony is devastating. Bob’s fishing for information about the very relationship that’s contributing to Tate’s vulnerability, while that vulnerability is being exploited by someone who makes his living destroying athletes’ lives.
“I’m not aware of any significant personal issues,” I say. “He seems focused on hockey.”
“The question is whether we give him more time or start looking at alternatives,” Bob continues, oblivious to the fact that the player we’re discussing might just be contemplatingthe first step toward destroying his career. “Parker’s shown real promise.”
“Parker’s young,” I say. “He hasn’t faced the kind of pressure that Barnes deals with regularly. Give Barnes another month, see how he responds to adjusted coaching. Then we can do another evaluation.”
“Adjusted methods?” Enver asks, picking up a glass of wine. “What are you thinking?”
What am I thinking? I’m thinking that I should have warned him. Should have found a way to reach him without blowing my cover, should have risked Morrison’s threats to keep Tate away from people who want to exploit him.
“More individualized attention. Focus on rebuilding confidence through controlled situations.” I make shit up as I go, saying whatever might buy me time while my mind races. “Sometimes a player needs to step back and work on fundamentals away from game pressure to reconnect with their natural abilities.”
The syndicate contact gets up and walks toward the restroom, leaving Tate to stare at the card. I can see him weighing his options, probably telling himself that one meeting can’t hurt, that he’s just exploring possibilities.
I told myself the same thing when Mikhail Volkov first approached me. What could be the harm in listening?
The harm is that people like Volkov and the man who just left are experts at saying exactly what you need to hear. They’re predators who’ve made careers out of identifying desperate athletes and turning that desperation into compliance.
“That could work,” Frank muses, stroking his chin. “Take some pressure off, let him rebuild without the scrutiny of game situations.”
“Exactly. Sometimes the best thing you can do for a struggling player is give them space to remember why they lovethe game.” The words taste like shit on my tongue because I know that space isn’t what Tate needs. What he needs is someone to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, and tell him that whatever was just offered to him isn’t worth the price he’ll end up paying.
Tate sits back in his chair. He looks around the restaurant, and for a hot second, I think he might see me. But then his gaze passes over our table without recognition, his mind clearly elsewhere.
He’s thinking about possibilities. About solutions to problems that have been eating at him for months.
He has no idea that understanding is the hook, and he’s already swallowing it.
“I think that’s a reasonable approach,” Enver says, and my attention snaps back to the table. “Give Barnes another few weeks. Let’s see if we can get him back on track.”
A few weeks. By then, it’ll be too late. By then, Tate will either be working for people who’ll destroy him if he refuses their demands, or he’ll be dead.
My pulse hammers hard against my neck, blood pounding between my temples.
