She’d tried to match them before, years ago, begging him to ask Nettie out, and even threw them together several times… which was more uncomfortable than going to see a proctologist who had big hands. Yeah, nuh-uh. His harebrained sister even came up with this stupid idea that if Nettie didn’t find someone else, he had to promise to marry her on her thirtieth birthday.
Screw that thought sideways, man...
There was no freakin way he would ever, in a billion years, consider marrying Bernadette Judith Yarborough.
Tate had been pacing for hours. His home, usually his sanctuary after brutal practices and road trips, felt like a cage tonight. Every corner was too sharp, every shadow too long. He stalked from the kitchen to the living room, shoulders tight, his steps echoing off the hardwood floor. The television blared in the background—some outdated rerun—but he couldn’t focus on it. His thoughts kept looping back, gnawing at him like a dog with a bone.
The arena.
The team.
Nettie.
He raked both hands through his hair and let out a growl of frustration. Why the heck had she said something like that? To anyone, much less a stranger? And the worst part—the insult buried inside of her shocked expression when she realized it was him behind the helmet. She hadn’t even imagined he could’ve been the one standing there… like he was beneath consideration.
He stopped pacing, bracing his hands on the back of the couch, head bowed. His reflection caught faintly in the darkened window across the room—a man who looked like he’d lost every ounce of patience, every scrap of self-control. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt, muscles ticking as if even his face refused to stay still.
The guys weren’t listening to him, Côte was right about that, Thierry was breathing down his neck, Nettie had blindsided him in a way he’d never thought her capable of, and his sister—always meddling—had encouraged it. The cocktail of fury, rage, and humiliation burned like acid in his gut.
He shoved a hand into his pocket and yanked out the business card Côte had pressed into his hand three days ago, nearly crumpling it.Emil Jenkins, Ph.D.He glared at the neat font, reading the name over and over like it was mocking him. Therapy. What a joke. He didn’t need someone with glasses and a clipboard telling him how to live his life. But the card felt heavier than cardboard should. It wasn’t just paper—it was leverage. The proof Côte needed that Tate was “coachable” enough to deserve captaincy.
His thumb traced the raised lettering. He hated this. Hated that he felt like he had no choice. Hated more that he was about to do it anyway.
“Stupid idea,” he muttered, dialing the number before he could talk himself out of it.
The phone rang once, twice?—
“Emil Jenkins, can I help you?”
Tate stiffened. He hadn’t expected the man to answer this late. The hostility bubbled up instantly, sharp on his tongue. “Yeah, I guess that’s what you get paid to do, isn’t it? Help people?”
The voice on the other end didn’t bristle. Didn’t snap back. Instead, smooth as butter: “You must be Tate Cassidy… I’m impressed. I thought for sure it would take you a few weeks to make the call. Very impressive indeed.”
Tate barked a humorless laugh, pacing again, his free hand dragging across the wall as if he needed something to anchor him. “Why’s that? I was ordered to contact you. It’s not like I had a choice.”
“We all have choices,” Emil said, voice calm, unhurried. “Some harder than others. For you to call so quickly shows initiative, drive, and ambition. A desire to better yourself, not just your career, but who you are as a man.”
Tate’s lips curled. He dropped onto the arm of the couch, drumming his fingers restlessly against his thigh. “Yeah, yeah. So what’s this gonna be? Three times a week, me lying on some leather sofa while you take notes and pretend to listen to me?”
Emil chuckled softly, and the sound made Tate pause. Not mocking and not patronizing. Just… amused. “That might have been true once upon a time. But I like to think of myself as a little more… modern.”
Before Tate could ask, his phone buzzed with a FaceTime request. He blinked at the screen, startled, then swiped it open.
The man staring back at him was nothing like Tate had pictured. Horn-rimmed glasses slipped low on his nose. A plaid jacket. A toupee so obvious it almost begged for someone to snatch it off his head. It looked like a gray animal pelt and frankly – a little disturbing. Emil was seated at a kitchen table, a plate of spaghetti in front of him, twirling noodles with practiced ease.
“You could’ve told me you were eating,” Tate muttered, shifting on the couch.
“And miss this? Never.” Emil smiled, fork pausing midair. “Three days. It took you three days, so what pushed you over the edge into making the call?”
“Nothing.” The word came out sharp, defensive.
Emil didn’t so much as blink. “Tate, one thing I’ll insist on between us is honesty. Nothing leaves these conversations. If you’d checked your email, you would’ve seen the nondisclosure papers. Sign them, send them back, and you’ll have it in writing. I prefer emails because it’s so much cleaner… more modern.”
Tate leaned back into the couch cushions, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Because you’re modern, huh,” he said, a reluctant smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Exactly.” Emil’s grin widened.
For the first time that night, the knot in Tate’s chest loosened—just a fraction. He exhaled slowly, staring at the man chewing his spaghetti. He looked ridiculous, yet somehow… steady. Grounded. Unshakable.
