Page 97 of The Pucking Player

Mike lets out a long breath. “You’re going to do this whether I help or not, aren’t you?”

“You know me too well.”

“Fine.” He leans in, voice dropping. “But we do it my way. With backup nearby. And if I say abort, you abort. No heroics, no improvising. Deal?”

I grin. “Look at you, all responsible and shit.”

“One of us has to be.”

33

THE SON’S GAMBIT

LIAM

“Hold still,” Mike mutters, carefully taping the wire to my chest. We’re in the back of an unmarked surveillance van, getting ready to walk into what’s either the stupidest or bravest thing I’ve ever done. And considering I once tried to sneak a puppy into the team locker room, that’s saying something.

“The mic is sensitive,” the tech guy explains, adjusting something that looks intricate. “Just talk normally. No need to project.”

Next to me, Dmitri’s already wired up, looking annoyingly Zen about the whole thing, as if he’s done this before.

Mike paces the cramped space, running through the plan again. “Remember, we’ve got eyes on all exits. Two plainclothes officers inside. If things go south, say ‘nice weather we’re having’ and we’re in there in thirty seconds.”

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s our code phrase? What if Volkov actually wants to discuss the weather?”

“Then you’re screwed,” Mike deadpans. “Any other stupid questions?”

“Yeah. Why does Dmitri look so calm about this?”

“Because I am Russian,” Dmitri says serenely. “In St. Petersburg, this is like a regular Tuesday.”

The tech guy snorts, then quickly pretends to be very interested in his equipment when Mike glares at him.

“Listen,” Mike’s voice turns serious. “Get him talking about the PEDs. About Martinez. About the betting. But don’t push too hard. These guys smell desperation.”

“No desperation here,” I say, trying to ignore how my heart’s doing overtime. “Just a friendly chat between a hockey player and the mobster trying to ruin his life. Totally casual.”

“Christ.” Mike rubs his face. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you love me?” I grin at him.

“Because you’re too stupid to live without supervision.” He checks his watch. “Alright, showtime. Remember, ‘nice weather we’re having.’”

As we climb out of the van, Mike grabs my arm. “Hey. Be careful in there, Li. I’m not explaining to Sophie why her boyfriend got himself killed playing hero.”

It’s time to face the Russian mob. Just your regular Tuesday in Brooklyn, New York.

The entrance to Volkov’s club looks exactly like what you’d expect from a Russian Bratva front—gleaming chrome and red velvet, with a bouncer who could probably bench press my car. He’s got hands like catcher’s mitts and a face that suggests he eats defensive linemen for breakfast.

Dmitri steps forward, rattling off something in Russian that sounds either like “we’re here to see your boss” or “your mother was a hamster.”

Whatever he said, it works. The bouncer’s expression shifts from “I will end you” to merely “I might end you,” and he steps aside.

Inside, crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling,catching light that turns everything a deep, bloody red. The air smells like expensive cigars and questionable life choices. On stage, dancers who definitely didn’t learn those moves in ballet class writhe to some bass-heavy Russian pop song.

“This way,” Dmitri mutters, steering us toward the bar, which is a masterpiece of excess—black marble and gold accents, bottles of liquor lined up like soldiers. The bartender eyes us as we approach, his sleeve garters screaming “I take my cocktails very seriously.”

Dmitri orders something in Russian.

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