Tate pushed away from the couch, forcing his body into motion before his thoughts could spiral. Crossing the hall, he stepped into the narrow cubby that served as his office, tucked neatly off the main corridor. Shelves lined both walls, stacked with books he loved. Special editions gleamed with gilt edges, some bound in leather, others worn soft from years of use. Small treasures crowded the space, mementos of his life both on and off the ice: a chipped mug from his rookie season, the carved wooden puck he’d bartered for at a flea market, and perched proudly on one shelf—a ridiculous coconut head he’d won at a teammate’s makeshift luau in Denver. They’d hosted it because his buddy’s wife had been too pregnant to risk flying to Maui, so they’d brought Hawaii to Colorado. Tate had walked away with that coconut, like he was holding a prized trophy, and kept it. It still made him feel warm now, though the memory also left a hollow ache in his chest. He hadn’t really fit in Denver – and wasn’t exactly fitting in now with the Coyotes.
Maybe it wasn’t them…
Maybe it was him – and maybe the coach was right.
He dropped into the chair, flipping over a picture frame that had been sitting on the desk – refusing to look at it. He didn’t let himself linger on it. Instead, he pulled his laptop closer, woke the screen, and opened his email. Emil’s message waited for him, neat and clinical, a digital dare dressed up in polite language.
The forms were long, the questionnaire even longer. Tate’s fingers hovered over the keyboard before he forced himself to start. Each answer tugged something out of him—memories, truths, things he wasn’t used to putting into words. He typed, deleted, and retyped. At times, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. By the time he finally hitsend, exhaustion weighted his limbs. His brain felt scraped raw, as though Emil had reached through the screen and taken pieces of him he hadn’t meant to give.
He pushed back from the desk with a weary sigh and made his way toward the kitchen. The house was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against him, heavy and unyielding. Alone. Always alone. He flicked on the light, the soft hum of the refrigerator greeting him like an old friend. Automatically, he pulled out the quart of almond milk, gathered a tub of protein powder from a cabinet, the greens mix, and an electrolyte packet. His hands moved with the muscle memory of routine, dumping ingredients into the shaker and filling it with crushed ice.
The result was swampy and unappetizing, but he didn’t hesitate. He’d learned long ago that his body didn’t care about taste—it cared about fuel. Being an athlete meant pushing his body to its limits, then feeding it whatever it needed to keep going—calories, nutrients, hydration. The ritual was almost meditative, even when it was miserable.
Shaking the bottle, he lifted it to his lips and took a long swallow. It was salty, bitter, faintly metallic – definitely not something he enjoyed. He grimaced but kept drinking as he padded down the hallway toward his bedroom. The shaker rattled in his hand, half-empty, the sound echoing in the otherwise still house.
When he finally set it down on the nightstand and sank onto the bed, the emptiness hit him. Not just the quiet of the house, but the hollow space inside himself that no amount of books,trophies, or coconut heads could quite fill. He stretched out across the mattress, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, and felt the cold seep into him.
Empty. Cold. Almost like him.
And so alone.
And still, somewhere deep down, Emil’s voice lingered. Calm. Assured. A spark in the dark that Tate couldn’t quite smother… as he closed his eyes and began to think of what it would be like on the ice, as the captain of the Coyotes, fans cheering in the stands.
Tate’s alarm went off with the most obnoxious chirping sound ever engineered by mankind. He slapped at his phone blindly, half-tempted to hurl it across the room. His muscles already protested at the mere thought of what the day demanded—leg day.
Leg day meant lunges, presses, squats, and that kind of burn that didn’t let up for two or three days. The kind of ache that crept into his bones and made him question all of life’s choices, especially the one that landed him in professional hockey. He knew the drill—work until his quads screamed, stretch until he could barely breathe, then subject himself to a massage that felt like being kneaded like dough, an ice bath that would numb him to the marrow, and maybe, just maybe, he’d walk normally again by Thursday.
Groaning, he rolled onto his side and blinked blearily at the glowing screen in his hand. One new message.
From Gina.
He exhaled hard. His sister’s timing was legendary in the worst possible way.
You were mean! You need to apologize…
“Hmmph,” he grunted, thumbs moving sluggishly across the keyboard.
For what?
The reply was instantaneous, like she’d been perched on the edge of her bed waiting for him to wake up.
For being a J. E. R. K.
Tate snorted. His mood was already sour, and Gina tossing sunshine at him before six in the morning wasn’t helping.
For telling her to quit being stupid?
I rest my case – you sure woke up grouchier than normal! It’s been days, and you’re still pissy? Sheesh!
He scrubbed a hand down his face, dragging at his jawline, stubble scratching his palm. Gina was relentless.
You should know better than to encourage someone like Nettie to act like a tramp. When you start a conversation like she did with me, it immediately washes away any scrap of respect.
Would it kill you to be nice?
Would it kill you to use your brain?
He smirked.
