“I, for one,” Giroux had said, cutting through the post-game chatter, “would really like to thank ‘Crusty Cassidy’ for the suggestion to practice shots with Justin—because Aldonard? Buddy, youshoneout there tonight. Dude, you rocked it and we all noticed.”
Justin had looked stunned, his smile shy, but it was there. “Cassidy, I really appreciate the help, man—and you looking out for me. In fact, I really recognize the fact that I’m only as good as my brothers on the ice… and without you guys? I’d have been screwed tonight.”
That moment hit Tate harder than he’d admit aloud. Recognition. Brotherhood. It was a turning point for the rookie, sure—but also for him. Tate wasn’t the problem, not tonight.
Hebelonged.
Still, as he’d pulled on his jacket and tuned out the locker room noise, he couldn’t shake the hollow space inside him because victories felt better when someone was there to share them.
Not just anyone.
Nettie.
He wished she’d been there to see it—the glide of that shot across the ice, slick and effortless, sliding into the goal as if fate had guided it. Even he’d admired it, and he was his own worst critic. But instead of her cheering in the stands, he’d ended up in a fight, fists flying, heart hammering, and now here he was.
Alone.
Except—
A faint jingle broke through the silence—the bell of a toy batting across hardwood.
“Mulligan?” Tate called, and sure enough, a streak of gray fur came skidding around the corner, legs scrambling to keep upwith momentum. The kitten’s claws clicked on the floor before he launched himself at Tate like a tiny missile. Tate barked a laugh as the kitten scrambled up his leg. “Hey, buddy!”
The furball clung to his shirt like a climber scaling Everest. Tate gently pried him off, holding the wriggling body up so they were nose-to-nose. “Did you miss me?”
Mulligan’s answering mewl was pitiful enough to melt even Tate’s tired heart. He kissed the kitten between the ears before tucking him under his chin, the steady purr rumbling against his throat.
“I missed you too—though I don’t know why,” Tate muttered, rubbing the little menace’s back. “You make a mess, you’ve shredded my skin with those tiny daggers you call claws, and you crap like a horse. You’ll probably grow into some flea-bitten mongrel with an attitude problem that borders on feral…” He sighed, pressing his cheek against soft fur. “…and I love you for it, sweet boy.”
Mulligan hissed theatrically, then butted his head against Tate’s chin as though in apology.
Tate laughed, loosening his grip and heading toward the couch. He glanced at the clock, noting the late hour. Too late to text Nettie. Too late to say thanks for being there earlier, for making his crappy day a little lighter just by existing, but it was never too late to annoy his sister.
“She deserves it for bailing on us. Right, Mulligan?” Tate asked. The kitten hissed again, which Tate took as agreement. He grinned and opened his phone, his thumbs already moving. Short texts. Single lines. Every one designed to ping her phone and drive her crazy.
Hey!
Thanks a lot for backing out on that favor.
Sheesh.
At least Nettie was nice enough to back you up.
Maybe I should give the tickets to her—and tell her not to take you?
Or better yet?
Maybe I should tell Justin Aldonard to ask Nettie out?
He sat back, smirking when the three little dots appeared on the screen. Bingo. He had her. One single emoji came through— a middle finger.
Tate snorted, shaking his head.
“Nice,” he muttered, scooping Mulligan into his arms as he carried him down the hall. The kitten purred louder, clearly pleased with himself. Tate had just set him on the bed when his phone buzzed again.
The call lit up his screen.Gina.
He answered with a lazy, “Hello?”
