zane
The Calgary gameshould have given me some relief. Tate played lights-out and shut them down completely. The Raptors won three to one. It was the kind of performance that makes management think twice about trading you.
Instead, I’m sitting in my office at eleven o’clock, staring at my phone.
Tate’s been different since the game ended. Not “celebrating-a-win” different. Distracted, checking his phone every two minutes, making excuses about why he can’t grab drinks with the team. During the post-game meeting, he kept glancing at the clock like he had somewhere important to be.
I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror.
It’s the look of someone weighing an offer they know they shouldn’t take.
Morrison texted multiple times during the game with messages that got less and less patient.
Your window is closing.
The last one was just a number. Ten thousand. The monthly cost of keeping my father at Sunrise Manor.
I scrub a hand down the front of my face. Fuck, I should be home, trying to sleep, preparing for tomorrow’s practice. Butstill I’m here, thinking about the way Tate looked during our last film session. How he kept checking his phone between video clips, distracted, his mind somewhere else.
Tapping the end of my pen on the table, my mind stumbles back to the questions he asked… which upcoming games mattered most for standings, which opponents were struggling, which games “wouldn’t really hurt us if we had an off night.”
They were questions that sound innocent enough until you realize no competitive athlete talks about acceptable losses unless they’re thinking about shit no athlete should think about.
The knock on my office door practically makes me hit the ceiling. The building should be empty except for security.
“Come in.”
Tate pushes through the door, still wearing his suit from the post-game interviews.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“It’s late.”
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t sleep. I tried you at the hotel but you weren’t there, so I figured you might be here.” He closes the door behind him, leans against it. “I keep thinking about what you told me. About your dad, the medical bills. The gambling debts.”
Shit. Here it comes.
“What about it?”
“You said you got mixed up with bad people. People who don’t just forgive debts when you can’t pay.” He steps closer, and I can see something flicker in his expression. “What if I told you I might know people who could help with that?”
“Help how?”
“People with money. Lots of money. Who are interested in... consulting opportunities,” he says. “Opportunities for people in our position. People who understand hockey.”
“Tate.”
He holds out a hand. “Just hear me out.” His voice is tinged with excitement, like he’s figured out how to save us both, and it makes my stomach crash to my feet. “These people, they understand that sometimes athletes need financial flexibility. They’re willing to pay good money for consulting work. Really good money.”
“What kind of consulting?” I clench the pen tight in my fist, resisting the urge to fire it at the wall.
“Game management. Performance advisory services.” He’s using their words now, the careful explanations that make criminal activity sound like a business opportunity. “Fifty thousand per consultation.”
Fifty grand. More than some people make in a year. The same amount they offered me back in Detroit, when I was young and stupid.
“That’s a lot of money for consulting.”
“Yeah, it is.” He sits down across from my desk, leans forward like he’s sharing a secret. “But here’s the thing. I think they might be interested in both of us. A goalie and a goalie coach working together? That’s worth paying for. We have lots of value as a team.”
