“Was it the discussion with Mike?” Emil asked suddenly.
“You mean Coach Côte?”
“To you, yes. To me, he’s Mike—a personal friend. But you’re deflecting, Tate. You still haven’t answered.”
“I don’t have to.” Tate stretched his legs out, bouncing his heel against the coffee table. “I just have to show up. That’s the deal.”
“So you’d rather waste your time and mine than answer honestly?” Emil tilted his head. “Interesting. That tells me it’s personal. Something much deeper that makes you feel vulnerable.”
“Hey.” Tate sat forward, his voice snapping. “Don’t do your mind-mumbo-jumbo stuff on me. I just had a crappy day, in fact – it’s been like that all week. I’m here, okay? That should be enough.”
“Was it such a terrible idea? Talking to someone?”
“Yeah.” Tate jabbed a finger at the screen. “It’s insulting. And it’s just been… it’s been a long day, okay?” His hand fell, fisting against his thigh.
Emil chewed thoughtfully, then dabbed his chin again. “And there’s something else you don’t want to discuss.”
Nettie’s horrified face slammed into his mind like a punch. His stomach dropped, and he forced the image down hard. “Yeah. You know what? There is. And I don’t want to talk about it. Because it’s nothing.”
“Fair enough,” Emil said simply, voice soft as velvet.
Tate blinked, thrown off balance. He sat up straighter. “Wait. That’s it? You’re just letting me off the hook?”
“This is a safe space, Tate. Everyone has boundaries. You said no, and I respect that. Trust takes time. And frankly, I’m just excited we’ve finally met.”
Tate squinted, suspicious. “Because I play for the Coyotes and you’re some kind of fan, right? Great.”
Emil laughed, a rich, genuine sound. “No. Because you surprised me, and I am rarely surprised.”
Tate didn’t know what to do with that. He shifted uncomfortably, running a hand along the back of his neck, still restless.
“Now,” Emil continued, “I’ll finish my dinner, send you a few documents to look over—because, well…”
“You’re modern,” Tate said again, but this time he actually smirked.
“Bravo, my boy!” Emil pointed his fork at the camera like a conductor with a baton. “Text me when you’d like to talk again, and we’ll set a time.”
“How about never?”
“Thursday at five. Brilliant.”
Tate blinked, deadpan. “I think you lied. You don’t actually take no for an answer.”
“I think you’re going to enjoy this as much as I will.” Emil’s smile was calm, assured. “See you Thursday. Don’t be late.”
“What happens if I’m late?”
“It’s in your email.”
The call ended with a quiet click, abrupt and final, leaving him staring at his blank phone screen. His own reflection glared back at him, the faint blue glow casting hard shadows across his face. He looked… unsettled. Tired. Broken. Like a man who’d just been cornered without ever seeing the trap being set.
“I think you’re going to enjoy this as much as I will… see you Thursday. Don’t be late.”
Dragging both hands down his face, he muffled a groan against his palms. Emil had twisted him into knots, so effortlessly that Tate hadn’t even realized it until it was too late. The worst part? The irritation he expected to be simmering in his chest wasn’t there anymore. No, something else had taken its place—something sharper, more dangerous.
Intrigue.
Curiosity.
