The question hung in the air.
Tate hesitated.
He didn’t like where this was going… at all.
“And if you told Batiste to quit running his mouth, right after body-checking him into the boards, do you think he’d respectyou? Do you think he’d listen—if you were wearing the ‘C’ today?”
Silence settled over the room like a thick blanket. Tate shifted in his seat, his jaw clenching, the sting of Thierry’s punch still throbbing in his nose.
Coach Côte leaned forward.
“Thierry bonds with these men because he needs them to listen when he speaks. And they do. If you think you’re more qualified to lead, then the first thing you need is their respect.”
Tate’s mouth went dry.
Respect.
The word felt foreign, heavy, irritating.
“I don’t need this pep talk,” he muttered, trying to sound dismissive.
“Then go pack your things.” Côte’s tone was calm and decisive. He leaned back in his chair as if he’d already made peace with the decision. “If you won’t listen to me—or your team’s captain—then you’re uncoachable. And I don’t need uncoachable. This team is more than one person on the ice giving their all. I need someone who can be a driving force, someone with room to grow. I thought that was you, Tate.”
Tate swallowed hard. His pride screamed to walk out, but something in his chest twisted uncomfortably, rooting him in place.
“I want you to meet with a therapist,” Côte continued. “Your frustrations, your temper, the way you clash—it’s holding you back. The key to being a leader isn’t a letter on your jersey. It’s whether the team listens when you speak. Leaders aren’t assigned, Tate. They’re grown.”
Côte’s gaze sharpened, pinning him like a spotlight. “So you need to decide. Right here. Right now. Do you have it in you to grow with the Coyotes, or should I start looking for another enforcer?”
The words cut through him, sharper than Thierry’s fist. His job was on the line, and he knew it.
“Is the therapist hot?” Tate asked, simply to get a rise out of the coach – and heard his knowing chuckle.
“It’s a sixty-year-old man with a toupee – so it’s kinda up to you and how you let your freak flag fly, brother,” Coach Côte joked, grinning at him. “I think you’ll like Emil a lot – and I talk to him on a regular basis because none of us is above improving who we are as a whole.”
“You do?”
“Sure. I’m always looking to learn new ways to reach out to my ‘kiddos,’” Coach Côte teased, handing him a business card. “Even my problem ‘kids’ who have more potential than they know what to do with. Give this a shot and work on bringing the guys to your side as teammates – I think you’d be surprised at how well things go.”
Tate didn’t answer.
He simply took the card and the advice, needing a moment to think.
CHAPTER 3
NETTIE
Nettie leanedher head against the headrest, the last notes of laughter still tumbling from her chest. Her stomach was pleasantly heavy from potato skins, salt lingering on her tongue, her hair whipping in the late-autumn wind that was still uncomfortably warm, pouring through the open windows.
Gina’s new car smelled like leather and faint vanilla, her stereo system rattling the doors with Taylor Swift blaring out into the dusky air. For the first time in weeks—no, maybe months—Nettie felt good.
Unburdened.
Wild.
Alive.
The westbound stretch of I-20 sprawled ahead, the skyline of the metroplex shrinking in the rearview. Out in front, the horizon cracked open in a riot of colors: fierce gold bleeding into peach, then sinking into bruised purples and fiery pinks. The kind of sky that made you believe—just for a heartbeat—that if you drove fast enough, you could catch the sunset and keep it. Nettie smiled to herself, remembering that old rhyme:
