The North Texas Coyotes wanted him—a hometown boy returning with a shiny contract, endorsements lined up, and dollar signs flashing in every headline. It was a sweet gig, no denying it. All he had to do was keep his nose clean. Stay out of trouble.
Should be easy, right?
That’s where the problem started.
Nothing was easy.
Tate had ambitions. He was aggressive, fearless, and never backed down from a fight. Conflict pumped in his veins, and if there was even a ripple of disagreement, he took it as a personal challenge to bring that ‘boil’ to a head or remove it altogether.
And the team had a few ‘boils’ in his opinion.
“We’re on your team,bonhomme!” Theo Batiste roared, flinging his gloves and stick to the ice with a clatter that echoed in the rink. He squared up, fists cocked, eyes flashing murder as he spat blood out onto the ice. “If you’re wanting to fight, let’s do it—eh?”
Tate didn’t bother answering. He cut a wide arc with his skates, ignoring the burn in his thighs, and brushed past Batiste’s buddy, Travis Giroux, hard enough to nearly knock him off balance. While the other newbie to the team, Dominic, just whistled low, egging the rest of them on.
“What the heck is his problem?” Giroux snapped, catching himself.
Problem?Tate almost laughed. They didn’t want to see what a problem really looked like. He scanned the ice until his glare landed on the man he despised most—Gerry Thierry, captain of the Coyotes.
Thierry was everything Tate hated in a hockey player: big, talented, but soft to the core. The man gave new meaning to ‘Gentle Giant’. His long blond hair hung from beneath his helmet like some shampoo commercial, and he carried himself like he was God’s gift to women. The only thing he gifted the Coyotes was mediocrity. No wonder half the starting team had bailed to join the expansion franchise up in Quebec.
The Coyotes were a joke.
A hockey franchise that was sinking fast, kept afloat only by nostalgia and whatever desperate, faithful fans were left inDallas. Tate hadn’t come here to drown with them. Coming home was ideal for him, and the money was right, but he would never go down with the ship.
Tate was going to drag the Coyotes Hockey team kicking and screaming back into relevance. And if Thierry thought he was going to lead them there? Tate would crush that fantasy like he crushed opponents on the ice.
“Tate…? Tate, let’s talk for a minute.” Thierry’s voice carried across the rink, calm, almost patronizing.
Tate didn’t break stride. He didn’t respect the man enough to answer. If he’d known what kind of soft, family-first, play-nice garbage this team stood for, he might’ve stayed in Denver—even with the cutthroat locker room and the suffocating pressure. At least they cared about one thing: winning.
The Coyotes? They cared about who had to leave practice early for a PTA meeting, who was volunteering for a church fundraiser, or who needed the night off for a kid’s birthday. They weren’t hockey players. They were teammates. Buddies. They were a family. And Tate wasn’t interested in joining around their little campfire singingKumbaya.
“Cassidy—office. Now.” Coach Côte’s voice cracked like a whip. Then, sharper: “Thierry, you too.”
Tate expected someone—anyone—to chirp a sarcastic “oooh” like grade-schoolers getting sent to detention—instead, silence. Just a dozen pairs of eyes staring at him like he’d grown horns. Like he was the devil himself for doing exactly what he was paid to do—play hard and win.
Fine.
Let them stare.
He coasted to the bench, ripped off his helmet, and stalked off the ice. The rubber mat squeaked under his skates as he snatched up a bottle of water, squeezing it hard enough to crack the plastic before guzzling it down. Behind him, he heardThierry’s easy stride, the guy’s skates clicking against the rubber with the rhythmic, irritating sound of a horse trotting. Tate smirked bitterly. The guy was the human equivalent of aMy Little Pony, all shine and show - no bite.
Inside Coach Côte’s cramped office, the smell of sweat, leather, and stale coffee clung to the walls. Tate dropped into a chair, sprawling back with casual defiance. He met the coach’s eyes with a bored expression, daring him to start.
“What was that on the ice?” Côte demanded, voice low but sharp.
“Batiste was in my way.”
“So you slammed your teammate into the boards?”
Tate tilted his head, deliberately slow, like he was explaining math to a toddler. Thierry walked into the room and shut the door behind him like some mafia hitman lurking in a corner. It grated on his nerves to know that the man was here, witnessing him getting talked to by the coach.
“I body checked my opponent. Took the puck. Scored.” His lip curled as their faces darkened. He looked between the two of them in disbelief – and hesitation. Thierry was folding his arms, and the coach’s mouth tightened. “What? Aren’t we supposed to scrimmage like it’s a real game? Play like we mean it? Or do you want me to hold hands and sing songs out there?”
“You don’t have to injure the other players,” Côte snapped.
“Oh no.” Tate widened his eyes, batting his lashes in mock horror. “Were Batiste’s widdle feelings hurt?”
