Page 96 of The Pucking Player

I pull open the door. “Let’s go see what Mike’s got.”

O’Malley’s at lunch is exactly what you’d expect from Williamsburg—a bizarre mix of tech bros hunched over laptops, artists who probably haven’t slept since Tuesday, and what I’m pretty sure is a guy writing the next great American novel on his typewriter. Yes, an actual typewriter.

Welcome to hipster Brooklyn.

Mike’s easy to spot. He’s the only guy in here who looks like he could actually arrest someone. Six-foot-one of pure intimidation in a leather jacket, dark eyes that have seen too much, and the kind of brooding expression that makes perps confess just to make it stop. Also, my best friend since we were kids.

He stands when he sees us, and we do that manly half-hug thing that guys do when they’re in public. “Li, my man. Been a minute.”

“Yeah, well, someone’s been busy becoming New York’s finest.”

Mike’s eyes flick to Dmitri. “You are our Russian connection Li’s been telling me about?”

“Dmitri Sokolov.” Dmitri extends his hand. “Thank you for meeting us.”

“Thanks for putting us in touch with your friend,” Mike says as we slide into the booth. “Guy’s a fucking genius with numbers. We’ve been tracking Volkov’s activity for weeks now, waiting for him to slip up.”

“Slip up how?” I lean forward, pulse picking up.

Mike takes a swig of his beer. “My guys are on himtwenty-four-seven. He’s getting sloppy, frustrated that the team’s still performing despite the scandal. Making rookie mistakes with his shell companies, leaving paper trails. It’s just a matter of time at this point. We just need one solid piece of evidence connecting him directly to the PEDs or the betting.”

“How long are we talking here?” I ask, picking at the label on my water bottle. “Days? Weeks?”

Mike grimaces. “Could be months.”

“Months?” The plastic crinkles under my grip. “I can’t even text her, Mike. Can’t show up at her place. Meanwhile, she’s filling out Stanford paperwork and looking at apartments in California.”

“That’s rough, man.” Mike takes another pull of his beer. “But if we move on Volkov now, he walks. Maybe pays a fine, lawyers up, and we’re back to square one. That what you want?”

“I want my life back.” The words come out harder than I meant them to. “Team’s getting killed in the press, Coach’s trying to trade me while also trying to murder me one sprint at a time, and my girl...” I trail off, shaking my head.

“Li—”

“What am I supposed to do? Just let her go?”

Dmitri clears his throat. “Perhaps we accelerate the process.”

Mike’s eyes narrow. “What are you thinking?”

“What if we pay him a visit?” I blurt out, the idea taking shape. “Push his buttons a bit. Make him nervous.”

“Absolutely not.” Mike’s jaw clenches. “These aren’t your typical petty thieves, O’Connor. These guys don’t fight fair.”

“Neither does Coach Novak, and I’m still standing.”

“This isn’t a joke, man.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?” I meet his gaze. “Every daythis drags on is another day Sophie thinks I pushed her away because I’m a sleazy jerk. Another day Coach runs me into the ground. Another day our team’s reputation takes a hit.”

Mike rubs his face. “Christ, you’re still the same stubborn bastard you were in high school.”

“Some things don’t change.”

“Getting yourself killed won’t help you get your girl back,” he points out.

“Neither will sitting around waiting for Volkov to fuck up.” I glance at Dmitri. “You in?”

He shrugs elegantly. “Someone needs to keep you from doing anything too stupid.”

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