Page 98 of The Pucking Player

“What did you get us?” I ask as the bartender pours what looks like liquid diamonds into crystal glasses.

“The good stuff,” he says, then adds something else in Russian, gesturing at me. The bartender’s eyes narrow, then dart to a spot above our heads before he nods and disappears through a door behind the bar.

“Told him we’re players for the Defenders,” Dmitri explains, sipping his vodka. “That we want to discuss business with Volkov.”

“And?”

“And now we wait. Try not to look like you’re wearing a wire.”

“Any other helpful advice?”

“Yes.” He takes another sip. “Don’t die. It would really mess up our power play unit.”

A short while later, a guy in a sharp black suit appears, beckoning us to follow. He leads us up a staircase hidden behind a door marked “Private,” and past another bouncer who could moonlight as a brick wall. The whole setup screams “people who come up here don’t always come back down.”

Volkov’s office is exactly what you’d picture for a guywho probably has “Professional Bad Guy” printed on his business cards. Dark wood paneling, expensive leather furniture, and a view of Downtown Manhattan that would make any real estate agent weep. Behind his massive desk, Volkov looks like he stepped out of a Bond villain casting call—perfectly tailored suit, steel-gray hair, and the kind of smile that nudges you to check your drink for poison.

“Ah, the hockey players,” he says in accented English, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit. I hear you wish to discuss...business.”

I take a seat, hyper-aware of the wire against my chest and the mountain of muscle standing guard at the door. Dmitri settles next to me, somehow managing to look both relaxed and alert.

“Mr. Volkov,” Dmitri starts, his voice carefully neutral. “We appreciate you taking the time to meet with us.”

“Of course, of course. How can I help New York’s finest athletes?” But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Someone broke into my family’s place recently,” I say, keeping my voice even as best I can manage. “My mom’s pretty shaken up. Here’s the weird thing though…nothing was taken.”

Volkov’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. “This is New York. Crime happens.”

“Yeah, funny timing though.” I straighten in my seat. “Right after all these betting rumors started flying around. After Martinez got caught with the PEDs.”

“Who’s Martinez?” His expression is deadpan.

“The man who planted the PEDs in our lockers.”

“Are you implying something, Mr. O’Connor?”

I lean back casually. “Not implying anything. Just thinking maybe there’s a way to make sure my family stays safe. Maybe a way we could...help each other out.”

“Help each other?” Volkov steeples his fingers. “And how exactly would that work?”

“We’ve heard rumors,” Dmitri interjects smoothly. “About certain…opportunities for players who are willing to be…cooperative.”

Time to dangle the bait. “Let’s just say we’re open to discussing game management. “

Something flashes in Volkov’s eyes. But he doesn’t bite.

“Interesting.” Volkov leans back. “And what makes you think I would know anything about such management?”

“We understand you’re a businessman,” Dmitri states point blank, leaving the thought unfinished.

Volkov smiles, all shark teeth and warning signs. “I am a businessman indeed. A legitimate, above-board businessman. If your family is having...difficulties, perhaps you should speak with police.”

The irony of that statement could power a small city.

We dance around it for another ten minutes, Dmitri dropping hints like anvils, me trying not to look as wired as I actually am, Volkov playing dumb like it’s an Olympic sport. But it’s clear he’s not biting.

“Thank you for stopping by,” he finally says, standing up. Classic dismissal. “I hope your family situation…resolves itself.”

---