Aleksei Kolosov hadn’t been in the United States for more than 36 hours before he was already wanted by three alphabet agencies, a private Russian paramilitary syndicate, and—most fearsome of all—the Philadelphia Flyers’ goaltending development staff. His helicopter-less arrival in Philadelphia—having ejected from the underbelly of a jet mid-flight somewhere over the Atlantic and landed via a stealth wingsuit in the Schuylkill River—was as quiet as a glove save in overtime. Or so he thought.
He emerged from the water near Boathouse Row, soaked, bruised, but alive, dragging a waterproof duffel bag full of burner phones, an encrypted thumb drive, and one pair of incredibly rare prototype Bauer pads that doubled as flotation devices and riot shields. He commandeered a ride from a confused Uber Eats driver who watched Kolosov slide into the backseat like a Bond villain dipped in Red Bull. Destination? Geno’s.
Why Geno’s? Intelligence had intercepted a coded message buried within a Flyers press release about “organizational depth at goaltending” that analysts at Langley translated to mean: The package will be transferred near the cheesesteak.” Of course, rival spies misinterpreted the signal and mistakenly targeted Pat’s, leading to a full-scale chili cheese firefight that left two agents in hospital and one permanently allergic to provolone.
Kolosov arrived at Geno’s dressed in Flyers team-issued travel gear he had mysteriously acquired despite never actually joining the team in person. He ordered a “wiz wit” in flawless South Philly dialect—training that took three months of immersive VR simulation and one long night in a Camden dive bar. As he unwrapped the sandwich, he found what he came for: a microfilm cartridge hidden inside the roll. The bread was slightly stale, but the intel was fresh.
Suddenly, a red laser dot danced across his sleeve.
Kolosov didn't flinch.
In one motion, he flipped the cheesesteak tray into the air—causing a catastrophic sauce distraction—rolled behind a police horse, and dove into a nearby sewer grate just as bullets started flying. A low-level agent from the Flyers analytics department, moonlighting as a sniper for MI6, cursed in Czech and dropped his phone into a puddle.
Beneath the city, in the labyrinth of tunnels constructed for trolley lines and forgotten speakeasies, Kolosov made contact with his American handler: a heavily disguised Gritty. No one knew Gritty’s true identity, but in classified circles, he was known as “The Mascot.” A former Soviet psy-ops specialist turned chaotic good, Gritty communicated entirely in gestures, TikTok dances, and occasional growls. Kolosov understood every move.
The mission was clear now. Embedded deep within the Flyers’ organization was a mole—an informant feeding advanced scouting reports to rival teams and a shadowy European crime family known only as “The Broad Street Syndicate.” The only way to expose the mole? Infiltrate the Flyers locker room. Earn their trust. Protect the goalie crease, yes—but more importantly, protect the truth.
But Kolosov had one problem: he still absolutely did not want to play in the AHL.
So the plan was simple—too simple. He’d become the Flyers' third goalie. Just close enough to sniff out the traitor, but still far enough from Lehigh Valley to avoid any hint of minor-league exile. The line he’d walk would be thinner than Ivan Fedotov’s visa status.
As he emerged from the sewer at Broad and Pattison, drenched, cloak shredded, a stray cheesesteak wrapper still stuck to his skate, a local sports radio host shouted at him:
“Hey Kolosov! You ever gonna stop a puck for this team or what?”
Kolosov paused, adjusted his aviators, and answered coolly:
"Only if the city needs saving first."
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