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The third time was Thursday afternoon. I went into the equipment room to grab a spare stick, because mine had a crack in the shaft and Coach would murder me if I snapped it on Game Three. I was reaching up to the top shelf when I noticed something on the floor behind a stack of goalie bags.

It was a tiny black box, smaller than a deck of cards, with a little lens on the front like a bead. And beside it in the shadow, blinking, was a pinprick of red light.

I picked it up.

I turned it over.

On the bottom, in permanent marker, in block letters, somebody had written: D. MATHIS.

I stood there for a long time.

Derek.

Derek had put a camera in the equipment room. Which meant he’d put cameras where people went. Which meant he’d been watching. Which meant that if a certain someone had done a certain something in a certain hallway, say, at the end of a long practice, when he thought he was alone…

My stomach turned over.

I didn’t think. I pocketed the camera, grabbed a stick at random, and went to find Maksim.

He wasn’t in his room. Or the rink. Or the dining hall, or the gym, or any of the other places a person who doesn’t eat and doesn’t sleep might reasonably go. I’d checked all of them and was heading toward the locker-room corridor, muttering threats, when I heard voices behind the trophy case.

I slowed. I put my back to the wall.

“—just saying, man, there’s something off about him.”

Derek. Low, urgent, half a whisper.

“You’re paranoid,” said another voice. Brett Sandoval, Derek’s winger, a big easy guy with a laugh you could hear from space. He didn’t sound like he was laughing now. “Volkov’s a great player. That’s it.”

“He’s not a great player, Brett. Nobody’s that great.” A pause. “Have you ever seen him eat?”

“He eats.”

“I’ve watched. Ten days. He drinks red wine at every meal and holds a fork like it’s a prop. He doesn’t sweat. He doesn’t cramp. I saw him pick up a bench-press bar in the weight room, one hand, like he was fetching the mail.”

“So he’s strong.”

“He’s not normal. And I’m not saying I know what it is. I’m saying I’m going to find out.” A hard breath. “That’s why I set up the cameras.”

I stopped breathing.

“You set up cameras? Derek, that’s— dude, that’s illegal—”

“It’s insurance,” said Derek. “If he’s doping, if it’s some weird experimental thing, some designer stuff from Moscow, I’m going to have it on video. And when I do, his team gets DQ’d and mine goes to the semis. Simple.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m thorough. “

Two sets of footsteps moved away down the corridor, with Brett still arguing and Derek not answering. I stayed frozen against the wall until the last echo died.

Then I pulled out my phone with a hand that wasn’t quite steady.

LEX: where are you

Nothing. I counted to sixty.

LEX: derek is onto you. cameras. plural. we need to talk NOW