Page 87 of The Pucking Player

“Again.”

Then the extra stick work drills until my shoulders felt like they might detach. Real subtle, that man.

“This better be good, O’Connor,” Mike growls when he picks up. “Some of us work normal hours.”

I shift in my chair, wincing as my quads spasm. Even my bruises have bruises. “When have you ever been normal, Detective?”

“Since I got promoted to Organized Crime.” He yawns. “Unlike some people who still play with sticks for a living.”

Classic Mike. We’ve been trading insults since PS 380, back when he was the scrawny kid who couldn’t skate and I was the loudmouth who couldn’t shut up about the Defenders.

Now he’s Brooklyn PD’s rising star, and I’m...well, still a loudmouth who can’t shut up about the Defenders. Though after yesterday’s practice, talking itself feels like an Olympic sport. Coach made sure every player knew exactly why their captain was being run into the ground. Nothing like public humiliation with a side of physical exhaustion to really drive home a father’s disapproval.

“You hear about the break-in at my mom’s place?”

“Yeah, crossed my desk.” His voice sharpens. “Was planning to call her today to check in with her. Weird case. Nothing stolen, but specific damage. Almost like?—”

“Like someone was sending a warning?”

Silence. Then, “Talk to me.”

I lay it out—the PEDs scandal, the betting patterns, Dmitri’s connection to Volkov, the destroyed cello, the highlighted sheet music. By the time I finish, Mike’s fully awake.

“Jesus, Li. Why didn’t you come to me right away?”

“Didn’t want to drag you in unless I had to.” I pace my living room, restless energy burning through me. “But they are going after my family now.”

“And you’re thinking of doing something stupid.”

“You know me all too well.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m worried.” He sighs. “Look, we’ve been building a case on Volkov for months. Money laundering, racketeering, the works. But this guy’s smart.”

“Until now,” I point out. “Going after my family is reckless.”

“More like deliberate, my friend.” Mike’s voice has that tone he gets when pieces are clicking together. “What if he’s trying to provoke you? Get you to do something unsavory? So that you would look bad in the press again?”

“Maybe.” I stop pacing. “So, what’s the play?”

“Give me forty-eight hours. My CI says Volkov’s getting pressure from higher up. The old guard in Moscow isn’t happy about him playing games with American sports. He’s desperate to make this betting scheme work.”

“And?”

“And desperate men make mistakes. We’ve got surveillance on his club in Brighton Beach. Wire taps on his phones—the ones we know about. If you confront him...”

“He might slip up.” The idea takes shape. “Say something incriminating.”

“Exactly. But Liam?” Mike’s voice turns serious. “This isn’t a game. These guys play for keeps.”

“Good.” I think of Mom’s shaking hands and Erin’s tears. Of Sophie’s smile that I haven’t seen in days. My promise to her that I wouldn’t bolt, and me doing exactly that. “So do I.”

“Christ.” Mike mutters something that sounds like a prayer. “I’m serious, Li. We need to do this my way. No cowboy shit.”

“When have I ever?—”

“Third grade. Jimmy Antonelli’s lunch money.”

“That was one time! We were nine!”

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