He thinks he’s cute.
He thinks he’s smart.
He thinks he can leave me dangling.She railed with her inner voice, venting all the things running through her mind that she couldn’t yell aloud because no one would understand just how infuriating Tate could be sometimes – except Gina.
Nope—this was hers.
She wasn’t telling Gina a word.
This was private. And Nettie was keeping it that way.
Instead of talking about Tate, she pulled out her phone and quickly messaged Gina a simple text to make arrangements.
Friday – Hockey game. Tix at Will Call. You on?
YOU KNOW IT!
Smirking, Nettie smiled.
That was enough to share. Gina didn’t need to know she had no plans on needing a ride back home after the game. Her friend could fawn over her goalie all she wanted, and she would snuggle against her grumpy guy – who claimed they weren’t dating.
“In his dreams,” she chuckled, shaking her head.
CHAPTER 21
TATE
“Oh, thank goodness…”
Tate muttered gratefully under his breath as he tossed his phone into his cubby, the device landing with a dull clack against the worn wood. He sat down on the bench in the locker room, changing into his uniform for an afternoon practice session to get ready for the game on Friday.
The last three days had been awful with the waiting, the wondering if he shouldn’t have kissed her cheek at all – or if he should have just picked her up and carried her inside her house— because the thought had crossed his mind. Was she mad he hadn’t made an advance on her, did she hate him for it, or worse – what if he cared more than she did?
No, that couldn’t be it.
Nettie’s cheeks, flushed pink from the cold, the way her eyes had flickered up to his in that breathless moment, was everything. The fact that they’d had a wonderful time together without fighting was probably the best thing he’d experienced since his hat trick two years ago—the one that had pushed his team into the playoffs and had the crowd chanting his name. Only this time, the victory had nothing to do with hockey.
But the silence afterward?
Torture.
Pure and simple.
He dragged a hand through his damp hair, trying to focus, trying to shake off the sting of the memory. Even Emil had noticed last night. Tate had tried to act normal during their session, but Emil saw straight through him.
“You’re not talking to me,” Emil said simply, looking into the screen and tapping his fingertips together annoyingly. “Spill it.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t ‘nothing me’ – I’m your therapist. I get paid to listen to all the ‘nothings’ in your life.”
“No, you get paid to help me get along with the team, and the end goal is to make me the team captain – and then I’m done with you.”
“So you think…”
“So I know…” Tate had snapped bitterly. His tone came out harsher than he meant, bitterness fueled by Nettie’s silence. “I never wanted to do this. Therapy is for whack jobs who can’t handle life and…”
“Therapy is for everyone,” Emil interrupted firmly, his voice gentle and unbudging. “Therapy is for the mother who needs an hour of peace to vent about her children fighting all the time. It’s for the child who can’t understand why children are so mean and just wants to be accepted. It’s for the man who lost his dog, his child, his spouse, or his parent. Therapy is for the ninety-year-old man who lost his wife and can’t figure out how to cook two biscuits instead of an entire can – and weeps over her loss everytime he makes breakfast because she’s not there,” Emil stressed softly, his voice full of strength, compassion, and understanding. “Therapy isn’t just for the people who have had a psychotic break. It’s for everyone who needs an ear to listen, a friend to share with, an unconditional person to be there when they need them.”
