Page 99 of The Pucking Player

The threat in those words isn’t even subtle.

Outside his office, Dmitri mutters something in Russian that doesn’t sound complimentary.

“That was a waste of time,” I growl, heading for the exit. “Let’s?—”

“Gentlemen.” A voice stops us near the door. Sharp suit, sharp features, sharp smile. One of Volkov’s guys, but not one we saw upstairs. “A moment of your time?”

I glance at Dmitri. His face gives away nothing, but there’s tension in his shoulders.

“This way, please.” Sharp Suit gestures to a door I hadn’t noticed before. Not exactly a request.

Great. Either we’re about to get our big break, or we’re about to get broken. Might be a good time to mention the weather.

“After you.” The guy smiles, holding a door open that leads to what looks like a high-end sports bar crossed with a billionaire’s man cave. Signed jerseys line the walls—not just hockey, but soccer, basketball, everything. And right in the center, displayed like the Holy Grail itself, is a Defenders jersey.

My jersey.

“This is like the Twilight Zone.” Dmitri murmurs beside me. Then louder, “Impressive collection.”

“My pride and joy.” A voice comes from the corner where a guy about my age sits in a leather armchair, Xbox controller in hand, a video game paused on the massive screen in front of him. He’s got Volkov’s steel-gray eyes but softer features and is wearing a designer hoodie instead of a suit. “Though I have to say, your new goal celebration needs work, O’Connor.”

My game character stands frozen on screen, mid-celly, right hand touching left wrist before the trademark point skyward.

The exact spot where I wrote my number on her arm.

“Some celebrations mean more than others,” I say warily, watching his reaction.

“Andrei Volkov,” he says, standing. “Big fan. Even if you did crush CSKA Moscow in the exhibition game last year.”

Well, this just got interesting.

Dmitri and I exchange bewildered glances. “You follow European hockey?” I ask carefully.

“Follow it?” He grins, gesturing to a wall of framed tickets. “I lived it. Played juniors for CSKA until father decided business school was more important than hockey dreams.”

There’s an edge to those words sharp enough to cut.

“Must have been disappointing.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He drops back into his chair, waving us to the nearby couch. “But hey, at least I got a fancy MBA and a corner office running Daddy’s businesses.” The sarcasm could strip paint. “The legitimate ones,” he adds after a pointed pause.

Dmitri and I exchange looks again. This is either the best break we could get, or we’re about to end up at the bottom of the East River.

“Speaking of business,” I start.

“You mean the PEDs and the betting? The whole ‘destroy the Defenders from the inside’ master plan?” Andrei’s voice is casual, but his eyes are anything but. “Yeah, I know all about it.”

My pulse kicks up. “And?”

“And I’ve been gathering evidence for months.” He pulls out a laptop, fingers flying over the keys. “Bank transfers. Shell companies. Recorded conversations. Everything you need to take him down.”

“Why would you help us?” Dmitri asks the million-dollar question.

Andrei’s face hardens. “Because he doesn’t just want to control the betting. He wants to own the whole league. Start with one team, then another. Until hockey’s just another business asset in his portfolio.” His voice cracks slightly. “This game deserves better than that.”

Holy shit.

“You’ll help the cops get to your own father?” I can’t help asking.

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