Nettie grimaced. The woman had a point, but still—this was humiliating. With a resigned sigh, she turned around, peeling off her mud-stained blouse and still-damp, torn jeans. The seams were still clammy against her skin, the grass-stains refusing to let go. Gina shoved a soft, oversized shirt into her hands.
Nettie tugged it on quickly, her fingers halting as the fabric slid down over her shoulders. It wasn’t cotton.
“Before you say anything,” Gina’s voice floated from behind her, a hand thrust forward with leggings dangling from her fingers, “hockey games practically require hockey jerseys. I’m loaning you one of mine.”
“Ah, okay. Thank you.”
“Now, turn around and lemme see your knees and your palms.”
Obediently, Nettie did as asked. The jersey was long enough to cover her thighs, and as she glanced down at the bold design, her breath hitched. Dark gray, green, and white. A snarlingcoyote’s head leered from each shoulder. And across the chest—large enough to swallow her whole—was the number 70.
Her throat went dry.
“Is this Tate’s jersey?”
“Duh.” Gina dabbed a soapy paper towel over Nettie’s scraped knee like she was a child with a playground injury. “He got me the tickets, so we need to represent. Besides, I’m a Cassidy too, so it’s kinda cool to see my name on people’s shirts even if I’m not playing.”
“I don’t think…”
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Gina cut in firmly, rising to her feet. “Whatever is happening or not happening between you two—that’s none of my business, even if it would be like winning the lottery to me. I get it. Things are personal and touchy, but this is supporting someone in my family, so can you not freak out and just wear the thing for me?”
“You’re not setting me up?” Nettie asked cautiously, narrowing her eyes.
“Nope.” Gina popped her lips. “But I’m hoping Tate sets me up with the goalie—oh my gosh, so hot… so, so epically hot.”
Despite herself, Nettie laughed. Gina was already fanning her face dramatically.
“You are good—now hurry and get dressed. We’ve got a game to win.”
CHAPTER 14
TATE
Nervous.
One word.
Two syllables.
Thousands of reasons.
The locker room felt too small, too hot, too loud. Tate’s leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, an involuntary twitch that made the metal frame of the bench beneath him tremble. His hands—already wrapped in his lucky gloves—were shaking, sweat clinging to his skin despite the air-conditioning that hummed faintly overhead.
They’d already gone through their pregame speech. He’d already gone through his rituals, every step followed with the precision of a man desperate to cling to order. His stick was wrapped perfectly in his favorite tape. Penny tucked into the right skate—edge sharp, just like he liked it. Gloves that smelled faintly of leather and old sweat pulled snug around his fingers. He should’ve felt prepared. He should’ve felt ready.
He didn’t.
Because tonight wasn’t just about hockey. Tonight was about proving that he belonged.
The Wolverines weren’t just another team—they weretheteam. The team that had stolen three Coyotes veterans, the team that had ripped holes in their lineup and forced management to fill them with new blood. With him. With Dominic. With Justin.
And now those three deserters—Coeur, Lafreniére, Boucher—sat just yards away in the opposing locker room, probably laughing their heads off. Tate could still see them in his mind’s eye, grinning like cats fat off cream, relaxed and loose while his insides coiled tight as a spring.
They were either going to win tonight or get obliterated. And Nettie would be there to see it.
That thought punched harder than any body check.
He adjusted his helmet strap for the fifth time, even though it was already perfect, then dared a glance around the room. His teammates were buzzing—taping sticks, tugging jerseys, muttering little half-jokes to bleed off tension. The scent of muscle rub and ice packs lingered in the air, cut by the faint ozone tang of the ice waiting just outside.
