“Yes, Cassidy? Can I help you?”
Tate swallowed and shifted the stick in his hand, the plastic tape biting into his palm. “I’d like to try something different for the team…”
That stare. Flat, unblinking, assessing him like he was both player and problem in the same breath. Bracing himself for the confrontation that was sure to follow. Would it result in removing him from the ice, indefinite suspension… or worse?
“Have you run it past the captain yet?” Côte asked. “Thierry is handling practice today while I gather notes on a few things I see for improvement. Go speak with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
The words felt heavy as Tate pivoted away, blades scraping the ice. His gaze caught on the cluster of players leaning on their sticks, every one of them watching. Batiste—of course—stood a little straighter and, with exaggerated nonchalance, lifted a middle finger in Tate’s direction.
Nice.
Tate snorted and, instead of ignoring him, stretched out his own arm to flip the man the same signal. Batiste grinned wolfishly and blew him kisses like some idiot Romeo in shoulder pads. It was ridiculous. Immature. But for a beat, Tate almost cracked a smile. The two of them didn’t mix—oil and water—but somehow their rivalry had its own warped rhythm.
He skated up to Thierry, the de facto leader of this practice, and the man he was going to replace someday as the captain of this team.
“Gerry,” Tate began, steadying his voice. “I’d like to make a suggestion…”
Thierry’s brown eyes flicked toward him, calm where Tate’s blood usually ran hot. “Sure. If it’s productive, go for it. I’m all ears.”
Tate exhaled, nerves buzzing. “I’d like to focus on us making shots at the goal—because we could use a little practice andJustin could use some work defending the goal instead of just doing drills or going through the motions.” He hesitated, grimacing at the man’s frown. Yeah, Thierry wasn’t going to listen to him because it would be a hit to his pride, and the man didn’t take that well at all, but then again, neither did Tate. “Maybe I’m explaining this wrong.”
“No.”
The flat response hit like a puck to the chest. Tate bristled, temper sparking. “Why not? We don’t need to practice doing drills up and down the ice with?—”
“No.” Thierry cut him off again, calmly pressing a hand to Tate’s shoulder before his temper could erupt. His mouth curved just slightly. “You explained it well, and I think it’s a brilliant idea.”
Tate blinked. The whiplash made him do a double-take, enough that Thierry chuckled under his breath.
“We could all use practice making shots and working on our defense,” Thierry continued, voice carrying easily across the rink. “The last game, our defense let one through, and Justin wasn’t able to stop the puck in time. No offense, Justin…”
From the net, Justin clapped his massive, padded gloves together with a muffledthwack,his grin hidden behind his mask. The gesture said everything:Bring it. Test me.
Score one for me, Tate thought – realizing the goalie was on his side.
“What’s your plan?” Thierry asked.
And just like that, Tate found himself laying it out—breaking into groups of three, dividing based on skills, mixing lines so everyone sharpened both offense and defense. He expected pushback. He expected Thierry to shoot him down, maybe even mock him for overstepping. Instead, Thierry listened, nodding here and there, and the others chimed in.
For the first time in a long time, Tate didn’t feel like a liability. He felt like he belonged.
Practice shifted. Shots fired, bodies moved, the air thick with the grunt and scrape of hard work. And for a while—just a while—it was good.
Until it wasn’t.
One careless trip sent a rookie sprawling. Tate nearly plowed over him before cutting sharply to the left. Tempers flared instantly. Batiste came barreling over, chest puffed, jaw tight, like he had to defend the new guy’s honor. Giroux lifted his palms in surrender, trying to talk the hotheads down. And Thierry? Nowhere. Vanished into the background as usual.
That coil inside Tate finally snapped.
If ‘Fluffy’ wasn’t going to lead the team, then he was going to take up the mantle and deal with the consequences… or find another place to hang his hat.
“HEY!” His roar cracked through the rink, echoing like a gunshot. He ripped off his helmet, tossing it hard enough to make it skid across the ice, and slammed his stick down beside it. Fury bled through every syllable.
“I’m here to play, here to get better, here to win,” he snarled, voice raw. “And if you want to fight or act like a bunch of children—bring it. I’ll beat any of you to a pulp without a second thought. But if you want this to be a team, then be a part of it…”
The silence that followed pressed heavily against his ears. A couple of guys muttered under their breath, their glares sharp enough to cut. Tate ignored it, chest heaving.
