Unless the FBI operation works. Unless Morrison’s plan to use Tate as bait actually results in arrests instead of casualties. Unless I can find a way to protect him from the inside while pretending to help destroy him.
“Good,” Bob says, draining the red wine from his glass. “I think that’s a solid plan. But we have to be prepared to take action if this method doesn’t work.” He gives me a pointed look. “Just so you are aware, Coach. We are prepared to make changes.”
I nod and somehow manage to choke down the rest of my meal, making mindless conversation and counting the secondsbefore I can bolt out of here. But the meal drags on and I can’t escape.
At one point, I excuse myself to go to the restroom. I keep my head down, moving toward the back of the restaurant as stealthily as possible, so that Tate doesn’t notice me.
I close the door behind me and lock it. Tate thinks he’s making a good career move, listening to promises that he believes can help him claw his way out of the hole he’s tumbled into.
But those promises are too good to be true. And by the time he figures that out, it’ll be too late.
I walk over to the sink to splash some water on my face. Then I pull out my phone and stare at Morrison’s unread messages. He wants to know if the syndicate has made contact.
A slow breath expels from my lips. Okay, maybe he doesn’t know what’s going on here right now. That buys us all time, but unfortunately, not enough of it.
I could tell him the contact already happened. I could report that the syndicate has made their move and Tate is considering their offer. I could play my part in the operation, helping them build their case.
Instead, I delete the messages and later I drive back to my hotel, knowing that tomorrow everything changes.
Tomorrow, Tate will probably meet with his contact again for his first real consulting session. Tomorrow, he’ll take another step toward a path that leads to a literal dead end.
And I’ll keep pretending to be his coach while helping the people who want to use him as bait.
Sometimes I wonder if my father would rather die than know what kind of man his son has become.
Tonight is one of those times.
TWENTY-SIX
tate
“So,”I say, settling back into my chair once Petrov returns from the restroom. “Tell me more about this athletic performance consulting.”
Petrov motions for the server, who walks over with an unopened bottle of wine. He expertly removes the cork and pours the red liquid into both glasses. When Petrov picks up his glass, I notice his diamond-encrusted Rolex that probably cost more than my first condo. “I gave you the highlights earlier. So now, let’s talk more about your current situation, Tate. What would you say are the primary challenges you’re facing?”
Jesus Christ, where do I start? The performance anxiety that’s been plaguing me for months? The coach who won’t return my calls? The rookie who’s playing my position while I sit on the bench and watch?
“It’s been a bit of a rough patch,” I say, which is the understatement of the fucking century.
“Rough patch.” Petrov repeats the words and nods. “That’s what they’re calling it in the media. But what would you call it?”
“A nightmare.”
“Better. More honest.” He leans back in his chair, studying me, his fingers steepled. “How long has this ‘nightmare’ been going on?”
“Six months.” I take a sip of wine. “It started before the playoffs last season and got worse over the summer.” If I had to pin point a time, it was probably when Mark and Tessa got really serious. I felt so much more pressure on me, pressure to be someone I’m not, someone I’ve been afraid to be since Vegas, since Zane’s rejection.
“And what have you done to address it?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Pretty much everything. Sports psychologists, meditation, different training methods. I’ve worked with three different coaches, including my current one. Nothing’s helped.”
“Traditional methods rarely address the root causes of performance issues in professional athletes.” Petrov’s voice is matter-of-fact. “They focus on symptoms rather than underlying problems.”
“What kind of underlying problems?”
“External pressures. Financial concerns. Family expectations. Relationship complications.” He shrugs. “They are all very common contributors to the stresses you experience in your position.”
I clench and unclench my fists under the tablecloth. “And how do you know about any of that?”
