All these years, Tate had kept that silly, clumsy little 5x7 frame she had made. It was decorated with tumbled rocks awkwardly glued into place. And inside it—a frozen moment of joy. She and Gina were laughing, heads thrown back, eyes alight with the unfiltered happiness of youth. And Tate?—
“Oh my gosh…” Nettie breathed, her chest tightening.
Because Tate wasn’t looking at both of them.
He was looking ather.
The realization crashed into her like a wave, stealing her breath, filling her with questions that scraped like broken glass.Why would he keep this? Why display it so openly in his home? Why look at her like that—when his words had been the opposite?
Her throat closed.
Her thoughts tangled.
He had cut her down, again and again, over the years.
Do better for yourself…
Try harder, Nettie…
Why aren’t you putting in an effort?
Don’t you want more out of life?
Every word was still sharp, still raw, even after all these years. He had broken her, crushed her, made her feel small, unworthy, insignificant. And yet… this frame said something different. That photo whispered another truth entirely.
She set the frame down, her fingers trembling as she stepped back. Her pulse thundered in her ears. None of it made sense. None of it fit the man she had convinced herself he was.
And she wasn’t sure she wanted the answers.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…?
Her lips parted, the words catching as her throat clogged with tears she refused to shed.
“Shame on me,” she whispered aloud, her voice breaking as she reached for her purse. The walls of his home felt like they were closing in with ideas, thoughts, and feelings that she had buried long ago – and to be honest, it freaked her out completely. I shouldn’t be here, she thought wildly, spiraling.
Seeing that single frame, that photo, that possibility had her spinning, feeling out of control, as every barrier she put into place, every emotion, was suddenly raw and bared. The frantic and protective urge to run was overwhelming.
“I’ve gotta get out of here… now,” she breathed, her pulse racing.
It was time to leave. Time to get out before the pieces of her heart she had so carefully glued back together began to crack again. This time, she wasn’t waiting around, wasn’t hoping, wasn’t wondering.
If Tate wanted her—truly wanted her—then he was going to have to prove it. He was going to have to tear down the walls he had built and fight for her because Nettie wasn’t going to hand him her fragile heart just to watch him smash it again.
Not this time.
CHAPTER 12
TATE
Hours later,Tate pushed open the front door of his house, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like lead, and his ribs were bruised from the scuffle on the ice. Even his knuckles throbbed where they’d connected with another player’s helmet. He was bone-tired—but beneath the exhaustion, an electric hum lingered, the kind only victory could leave behind.
The motorcycle ride home hadn’t helped. Dallas streets had been busy even at that hour, headlights blurring into streaks as he weaved through the traffic with the wind in his ears. Adrenaline still buzzed through him, tapering off, leaving an uncomfortable ache. The game played on loop in his head, whether he wanted it to or not.
They’d pulled it off. Somehow.Barely.
He replayed it, each missed opportunity like a bruise on his memory. Giroux’s fumble, Thierry’s shot wide, the way Tate had wanted to slam his stick into the boards in frustration. But then—he and Batiste had come through. His shot, clean as a blade’s edge, sliced right past the goalie. He could still hear the crowd’s roar echoing in his ears. Still see Justin—rookie Justin—standing tall in the net, saving them time after time.
Tate remembered the locker room, still damp with sweat and victory and disbelief.
