A shadow loomed.
A blur of motion.
The impact came like a wrecking ball, and that was saying a lot.
Kenneth Salas slammed into him - almost like he was taking revenge for the hit against Acton a moment ago. Tate’s entire frame jolted as if the hit had ripped the ice out from under him. His breath whooshed out in one ugly grunt, and for a split second, he was airborne. That didn’t happen to him. It never happened to him. Tate was built to absorb hits, to knock others down, not the other way around. But Salas had managed the impossible.
By the time his skates hit the ice again, Coeur had already swooped in. The man stripped the puck and was tearing off in the opposite direction.
Tate staggered, fighting for balance, his chest heaving. He could only watch as the seconds evaporated, that darn buzzer shrieking a cruel full-stop.
They lost.
The noise of the arena swallowed him whole—the cheers, the groans, the celebratory roar from the other team. His own stick felt heavier than iron in his hand, like a silent reminder of everything he could have done differently during the game.
He lifted his gaze to the stands. His sister’s face came into focus first—her lips parted in shock, her eyes flashing disappointment. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore; her attention had shifted to their goalie, Justin Aldonard, who knelt on the ice, helmet tilted down in utter defeat.
And then there was Nettie.
Her eyes locked with his, just for an instant. Concern flickered there, soft and real, the kind of thing that could have steadied him if he let it. But before he could hold on to it, she looked away.
That stung worse than the hit from Salas.
The recognition that she’d seen him fall short—that she’d witnessed him fail—dug deep. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way she turned away, as if she couldn’t bear to offer even the smallest smile or cheer, not when he hadn’t earned it.
He wasn’t ready for a relationship, and ‘wanting’ someone didn’t mean that it was the right thing for either of you. Desire was a physical function, and when you were done – it was over. A physical itch. An ache that burned and then faded once it had been satisfied. Nothing more. The body relaxed, healed, endorphins released, whatever. Maybe she was right about the friendship-thing that grated on his nerves.
But Nettie?
She made him want things he wasn’t sure he had any right to want. Maybe she was right. Maybe friendship was safer, cleaner. Something that didn’t leave you gutted when the buzzer sounded and the game was lost.
But if they were friends, could she ever see him differently? Could she see him as the man who wasn’t afraid to fight for morethan the puck, more than a fleeting win? Could she see him as a friend, and something more?
“Let’s go,” Thierry’s voice cut through the chaos, firm and commanding.
Tate exhaled, forcing himself to move, forcing his body to obey even as every step felt like walking through cement. The team would regroup, dissect the wreckage in the locker room, listen to lectures and excuses, and then head home. And after that?
He’d lie awake.
And think about her.
And think about losing—both off and on the ice.
CHAPTER 15
NETTIE
Nettie hovered justinside the doorway, clutching the strap of her bag a little too tightly as she tried to make sense of the whirlwind around her. The lounge for families wasn’t large enough for the sheer number of people crammed inside, but somehow, every seat, every table, every spare inch was filled with life.
The hum of chatter rose and fell like waves, punctuated by bursts of laughter, the shrieks of children darting between legs, and the faint bass thrum of arena music bleeding in from the corridor. Beyond that, the muffled echoes of the winning team showing off for their fans still carried—skates against ice, pucks slamming against boards, whistles, and cheers. It felt like a world within a world, one she wasn’t entirely sure she belonged in.
“Ugh,” Gina groaned, scooting through the bodies and flopping down dramatically onto one of the couches upholstered in tired, hunter-green leather that creaked under her weight. Her dark curls bounced as she threw an arm across the backrest like a queen staking her claim. “He’s gonna be so pissy…” – and then Gina patted the seat beside her, signaling Nettie.
Nettie hesitated, caught between choices. Should she sit next to Gina? Try introducing herself to one of the women already gathered in their familiar circles, chatting like they’d been friends for years? Or maybe make the safer move—grab a slider from the buffet and look busy chewing?
She lingered, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, feeling the heat of her uncertainty prickle under her skin.
“Who, Tate?” she asked finally, voice quieter than she intended.
