“Tate?”
“Yes?” His voice dipped, his attention narrowing, as though the single syllable mattered more than anything else in the room.
“Thank you for being someone I can depend on – even if I didn’t want to accept the help.”
The words hit harder than he expected, lodging deep. He rubbed his palm over his thigh, grounding himself against the sudden rush of feeling. “It’s my pleasure,” he said softly, meaning every single word.
No bravado, no shield of sarcasm.
Just truth.
“See ya,” he mumbled casually.
“See ya,” she echoed, and the quiet click of the call ending left the room heavier and lighter all at once.
For a long moment, Tate sat there, staring at the dark screen of his phone. Then he let his body go limp, flopping back onto the bed with a muffled groan as his shoulders finally gave way, relaxing. He stared up at the ceiling, his mind replaying her voice in looping fragments. There was something different in the way she’d said thank you—like maybe she was letting him see the side she kept hidden from the rest of the world.
A sharp little nip at his forearm dragged him back to reality. Tate glanced down to see Mulligan, his tiny gray menace, gnawing away with all the ferocity of a jungle predator. The kitten’s paws kneaded against his skin, little claws scraping, tail flicking with enthusiasm as though Tate’s arm were a prize kill.
“Easy there, Killer,” Tate muttered, wincing but making no effort to pull away. The little guy had already grown since Tate brought him home—put on at least a pound and a whole lot of attitude. His sweet boy was spoiled rotten already, and Tate couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Man, I sure hope Nettie doesn’t blow her top,” he murmured to the kitten, rolling onto his side and curling around the small body. Mulligan purred in between his playful bites, the rumbling vibration a soothing balm against Tate’s chest. He let the little claws scratch, let the teeth dig in just enough to sting, because the distraction felt good. Real. Grounding.
His mind wandered back to the call as he watched Mulligan wrestle with his arm. She’d said she could depend on him, talked about them meeting for coffee, almost like a date. That mattered more than he wanted to admit. To him, these were big steps that were long overdue between them – and it had been a struggle to admit any of his deepest secrets.
Including the ones still buried.
Under the guise of ‘friendship’.
“Guess we’ll see how this goes, eh, Mulligan?”
Tate felt like he’d been run over by a semi.
Twice.
The workout that morning had already shredded his legs until they trembled under him, and then practice had finished the job, grinding every muscle into dust. By the time Coach finally blew the whistle, Tate wasn’t sure if his legs belonged to him anymore. He’d pushed through—because that’s what you did—but the second he was off the ice, his body screamed in rebellion.
That was how he ended up doing the one thing he swore he wouldn’t. He sank into the ice bath.
Cold shot up his spine like a thousand knives. His first instinct had been to leap right back out, but pride chained himin place. If the rookies saw him bail on it, they’d never let him hear the end of it. So he gritted his teeth, forced the air out of his lungs, and sat there long enough for the stabbing chill to dull into a numbing ache.
Now, hours later, he was paying the price. Every step toward the locker room felt like his knees belonged to a newborn deer—awkward, stiff, ready to buckle at any second.
Bambi on skates.
Greaaaat.
He wasn’t the only one suffering. Justin was still out on the rink, sweat dripping from his jawline as he lunged side to side with single-minded determination, blades scraping the ice. Maniac. Dominic was in the weight room with Thierry, Molly standing over them like a drill sergeant as they powered through arm and core work. Watching Dom push through crunches with resistance bands strapped across his chest was enough to make Tate’s abs cramp in sympathy.
He respected it, though. It was one thing to have size—it was another to know how to use it. Coach clearly wanted a combination of speed and muscle when he picked the three of them at the draft. Tate had noticed it right away. Justin wasn’t the tallest, but he was solid, thick through the shoulders, and quick as lightning. Thierry liked to compare him to their old goalie—compact but impossible to shake when he set his stance. Dominic, on the other hand, was a wall. Broad, immovable, hard to score against. Put him and Batiste together in the crease, and you had a nightmare for any forward trying to drive the net.
Not impossible to beat, no... but darn close.
Dragging himself down the tunnel, Tate reached the locker room, body still humming from fatigue. The steam in the air wrapped around him, clinging to his skin, and he tugged the towel tighter around his hips as he headed for his stall.
The usual chorus of chirps and whistles echoed across the room.
“Nice hair, Tate!”
