"The investigation is ongoing. He hasn't been charged with anything."
"He hasn't been cleared either."
"No." Park's tone didn't shift, but I heard the acknowledgment underneath. He knew this was a hard sell. "Kieran, I'm calling you specifically because I need something from you."
I pulled off my blocker and set it on the bench beside me. The cool air hit my sweaty palm.
"We need Varis integrated quickly and quietly," Park continued. "The media is going to be all over this. The team is going to have opinions. We need someone steady in his corner. Not advocating for him, just... keeping an eye on things."
"You want me to babysit."
"I want you to house him."
I stood up. The movement was involuntary, some instinct telling me to be on my feet for what was coming. "House him."
"Temporarily. Your place has the extra room. You're the steadiest guy on the roster, you've navigated media scrutiny before, and frankly, you're the least likely person on this team to get manipulated."
"Flattering."
"It's true. I need someone who'll report accurately. No agenda, no bias. Just tell us what you see."
I walked to the boards and pressed my glove hand against the cool surface. Through the Plexiglas, the empty arena seats stretched upward into shadow. Twenty thousand seats that would fill with people who had opinions about every decision this organization made.
"How long?"
"Until the investigation resolves. Could be weeks. Could be longer."
"And if the investigation doesn't go his way?"
"Then we deal with that when it comes. Right now, the kid needs a stable environment and the team needs someone they trust to vouch for the arrangement."
Kid. Varis was twenty-six. Not exactly a child. But I understood what Park meant. A player under investigation, traded to a new team in a new city with no support system, and the entire hockey world watching to see if he'd implode.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"I need an answer tonight."
I closed my eyes. The rink's compressors hummed their low mechanical rhythm. My hip ached.
"Fine."
"Fine you'll think about it, or fine you'll do it?"
"Fine, I'll do it." I opened my eyes. "But Park? If he's dirty, I'm not covering for him. I'll report exactly what I see."
"That's exactly what I'm counting on."
My apartment occupied the fourteenth floor of a building in Lincoln Park, and it was exactly the way I wanted it. Clean lines, minimal furniture, everything in its place. The bookshelves were organized by genre and then alphabetically, because I'd tried organizing by color once and it had made my skin crawl. The kitchen was stocked with the kind of food a professional athlete was supposed to eat, plus the kind of tea collection that would've gotten me chirped mercilessly if the guys ever saw it.
I'd lived alone since my first year in the league. Eleven seasons now. Most of the guys cycled through roommates, girlfriends, temporary arrangements that reflected the transient nature of a career that could uproot you with a phone call. I'd opted out of all that early. My space was mine. I controlled the temperature, the noise level, the lighting, and the schedule. We goalies are particular. This is well-documented.
I stood in the doorway of the guest bedroom and assessed it with fresh eyes. Queen bed, grey sheets, a nightstand with a lamp, and an empty closet. Functional and impersonal. The room of a host who'd never expected to host anyone.
My phone buzzed again. Luca.
Park told me. You okay with this?
I said yes.
