Barrett grinned, shot him a thumbs-up, then disappeared down the ice, leaving chaos in his wake. Before Tate could gather his focus again or chance another look at Nettie, another body swerved into his path, cutting him off with irritating precision.
Jett Acton.
“Sup, buddy…”
“Oh mercy…” Tate groaned, dragging his glove down his face in annoyance.
“I missed you too, Cassidy…”
“Screw you, Acton.”
The man’s grin widened, teeth flashing as he matched Tate’s stride, refusing to let him pass. “Thanks, but no thanks. I mean, you know—if I ever went gay, you’d be my type in a heartbeat. It’s the hair and the attitude, but nahhh… I’m completely hooked on my wife.”
Laughter exploded from the boards again, and Tate’s ears burned beneath his helmet. Did his team hear that? Tate shoved past Acton, or tried to, but the man skated backward just out of reach, his expression mischievous and infuriating all at once.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Tate snarled. His jaw ached from how tightly he clenched it.
“Probably,” Acton admitted with a shrug, his smirk deepening. “But I’m enjoying this so much more. You need a nickname. I think I’m gonna call you ‘Two-bits’ or ‘Penny’ on the ice…”
The words hit like a slap.
A reminder.
Tate’s blood went molten. Of course, Acton would dragthatout—the last time they’d faced off, when a stupid, humiliating fluke had left him the butt of every locker room joke for weeks.
“You throw change on the ice, and I’m gonna call you an ambulance,” Tate growled, low and dangerous, his voice vibrating in his chest. A shrill voice rang out from the stands, slicing through the tension.
“Go knock the snot outta that loud-mouthed braggart! Sorry, Irene!”
Barrett Coeur’s wild, unhinged laugh pealed across the ice, high and delighted, as he yanked his helmet on like it was all some kind of performance just for him. Acton gave Tate one last wink, wiggled his fingers like a magician about to vanish, and shot off down the ice without another word.
It was game time.
Tate glared after him, teeth grinding together. His hands curled into fists around his stick, his knuckles aching against the gloves.
“I’m gonna kill that man if he puts me in the penalty box again tonight,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
But even as the fury boiled, the image of Nettie lingered—her wide eyes, her trembling mouth, the unspoken thing between them that had nothing to do with hockey… and everything to do with a history and feelings he could never quite escape.
As much as Acton and all those Wolverines grated on his last nerve, Tate knew the real battle tonight wasn’t against them.
It was against himself.
This wasn’t just a game—it was a war.
Every muscle in Tate’s body screamed, his lungs burned, and the sting of sweat in his eyes blurred his vision, but he refused to back down. The clock above the rink glowed like a cruel reminder, ticking away what little time he had left to turn this around. His pulse pounded louder than the roar of the crowd, and in that moment, hockey wasn’t just a sport—it was survival.
Acton had the puck.
Tate locked on to him like a predator on prey. He knew he turned his head swiftly, like a velociraptor inJurassic Parkwho’d just sniffed his next meal. His skates dug into the ice, sending up a spray of frozen shavings as he powered forward. He was done playing, and it was time to get nasty. This was the last push, the final charge, and nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to stop him from sinking that next puck.
He hit Acton with the force of a runaway freight train. The bodycheck landed so hard it rattled Tate’s bones, but it was worth it. Acton went flying, arms pinwheeling, legs kicking skyward, before toppling right over the boards. Gasps andlaughter erupted from the Coyotes’ bench as their opponent landed square in their laps.
“Penny-Lame, I’ve told you already… I like women!” Acton shouted, scrambling as his teammates shoved him back upright, grinning at his humiliation.
Tate didn’t miss a beat. His stick caught the puck, his stride lengthened, and a sharp retort flew out between ragged breaths. “Me too,” he fired back, before exploding down the ice, the puck a living thing dancing at the end of his blade.
The crowd’s roar rose in his ears, drowning out the thundering of his skates and the rapid-fire thump of his heartbeat. This was it—this was his moment. If he could just get one clean shot, one perfect angle?—
