“I’m not asking for your opinion,” he snapped, words striking like blows. “I’m telling you what I expect a Coyote to be on the ice. Take a look at what you think an NHL player’s career should look like. I have goals—and you’re in my way. Roadblocks get removed. So either quit goofing off or get it together. If you want to screw around, fine—do it in the locker room. But nothing,absolutely nothing, should be affecting your performance on the ice with me.”
For a moment, it was deathly still.
Then, slow and mocking, came the sound of clapping.
Tate’s head jerked toward Batiste, who was grinning like a devil as he applauded. One… two… three claps, echoing deliberately.
And then, behind Tate, another joined in.
He turned, startled, to see Coach Côte and Thierry both watching. Giroux added his own clap, his smile genuine, approval shining in his eyes.
“Listen up! ‘E is right,” Batiste called out suddenly, his thickly accented voice booming. “We may fight, but ‘e’s right. That’s how you win—as a team. And I want Tate on this team, not facin’ ‘im on the ice like last year.”
Tate couldn’t stop the sharp snort that burst out of him. Of course. Denver. He knew exactly what Batiste meant. That game had been war—Tate had baited him, fought him, gotten them both tossed out, and his team had stolen the win in overtime.
And now? That same man was backing him.
“Allons-yCoyotes!” Batiste hollered, thrusting his stick in the air.
“Let’s do this!” Giroux echoed, lifting his own.
“We’re gonna win these games,” Tate shouted, fire lighting through his veins, his stick raised high. “I want that win—and the next—and the one after that! You hear me?We are Coyotes!”
“I want the Stanley—” someone bellowed.
“I want to slaughter those guys on Friday…”
“Yeah!” the team roared back.
The rink erupted into wild whoops and hollers, players thumping their chests, sticks banging against the boards. The noise rattled the rafters, fierce and unifying. Tate felt a surge of pride so sharp it almost stole his breath.
Thierry’s hand clapped against his shoulder as he skated past, that rare smile curving his mouth—a silent message of support.
“Let’s do this!” Tate screamed, throwing himself back into the fray, his blood pounding with adrenaline. For the first time since joining the Coyotes, he wasn’t the outsider— the reject. It felt like they weren’t just a group of players thrown on the ice.
They were the beginnings of a team.
That night, driving home with the city lights blurring past his windshield, Tate felt like a brand-new man. His whole body buzzed, alive with something he hadn’t felt in far too long—hope. Not just the fleeting kind that teased him on a good day, but the kind that clung to his ribs and pulsed in his veins.
Practice had been different tonight. More than drills, more than sweat and shouted orders—it had felt like progress. For the first time, he’d seen something real in those guys. Not just individual skaters trying to prove themselves, but the faint, tentative stirrings of a team. It was fragile, delicate, like ice forming across a pond, but it was there. And he’d helped pull it out of them.
Not because he’d barked louder than the coach. Not because he’d strutted around with a “C” sewn onto his chest. No—he’d done it by listening, by teaching, by refusing to let them shrug off responsibility. He’d gone through the proper chain, spoken to them man to man, asked for their input, demanded their best. And when he’d hit his limit, he’d told them flat out what needed to be said.
The coach was right. A captain wasn’t just a title. It wasn’t a badge of honor. It was a bond. A responsibility. A chance to shape something greater than himself. Tonight, Tate had glimpsed that bond, and the rush of it hit him like morphine in a junkie’s veins. He wanted more.
By the time he pulled into his driveway, his chest was tight with determination. He was in one thousand percent.
He swung his gear bag over his shoulder, stepped into the quiet house, and immediately tossed his helmet onto the couch. Sure enough, Mulligan would find it. The tiny furball had curled up inside it yesterday as though it were a throne, his little body tucked into the padding like it had been built for him. Tate had stood there for ten minutes just staring, heart melting into a puddle at the ridiculous sight of a kitten ruling his equipment like a conquering king.
“Mulligan, come on, sweet boy…” His voice softened to a ridiculous croon the second he spotted the grey fluff darting out from the shadows. He chuckled to himself. “I sound like an idiot, but you like it – don’t ya, Mulligan? You want some snackies, baby?”
The kitten’s ears perked at the familiar word, his paws skittering across the hardwood as Tate headed for the kitchen.
He yanked open the drawer where he hid the tubes of foul-smelling gel treats that Mulligan was flat-out addicted to. The second the metal sliders of the drawer made a whoosh sound, Mulligan came barreling around the corner, tail high, meowing with a raw urgency that would’ve put a fire alarm to shame.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Tate muttered, cutting open a tube with practiced precision. He dropped into a crouch, holding it steady as the little predator latched onto his jeans in excitement, climbing and clawing, trying to get closer to the plate where he was squeezing the tube. Mulligan was purring so hard that Tate swore the floorboards vibrated.
“Shhh, little fella… just a bit so it doesn’t give your tummy troubles. We don’t want to go to the vet again, do we?”
