Her eyebrows shot up. Oh, really? If he wanted to start redefining labels in the middle of a dishwashing session, two could play that game.
So don’t – and if we’re not trying to be friends, then why are you still texting me?
I’m not sure.
Her stomach flipped, and she wasn’t sure if it was irritation or something far more dangerous. That was not the answer she was expecting from him or anyone else. If they weren’t friends, then what were they? Why was he texting? What did this all mean?
You’re difficult.
I’ve heard that before. You’ve gotta come up with something better than that to hurt my feelings or piss me off.
Nettie hesitated, thumbs still. She wasn’t trying to hurt him—or anyone. She was just… retaliating to howhewas acting. Surely he realized that?
I’m not doing either. I’m responding to how you are speaking to me.
A pause. Then:
I already know I’m hard to be around.
I’m sorry.
Her eyes widened, heart thudding so loud she swore it echoed. She reread the words three times, as if the letters might rearrange themselves.
Tate. Apologizing.
Apologizing.
Her knees felt weak, and she had to grip the edge of the counter again as her brain went into shock at the words on her screen. She had known him for years and never once did Tate apologize for anything – ever.
I’ll work on it. Good night.
“That’s it?” she asked aloud to the silence, her voice shaky. “Just like that? You show up, toss your grenade, and then run?”
Her thumb hovered, debating sending something—anything—but in the end, she locked the phone, tossed it onto the counter, and shook her head.
“You’re not difficult,” she muttered, flipping the switch on her phone to ‘Do Not Disturb’. “You’re impossible.”
And for the rest of the night, no matter how hard she tried to scrub, rinse, or distract herself, her mind replayed that picture, those words, and that startling apology.
Because Tate was many things—but predictable was never one of them.
CHAPTER 9
TATE
The sharp hissof skates cutting over ice echoed in Tate’s ears as he pushed forward, the cold air burning in his lungs. Every head on the rink seemed to follow him as he crossed the blue line toward Coach Côte. He could feel their eyes on him—waiting. Always waiting.
For the blow-up.
For the broken stick.
For proof that he was a problem and not an answer.
He hated that weight. Hated that he felt like a walking time bomb with half the guys just watching for the moment he’d snap. And with good reason, because he’d done it several times before and each resulted in a talking-to by the coach.
“Coach Côte?” Tate called out, forcing his voice to stay even when his gut twisted.
The older man didn’t glance up right away. His pen scratched across the clipboard with sharp strokes, his expression unreadable under the brim of his cap. Only after finishing his note did he lift his head, his gaze cool and steady.
