“Bonhomme,” Batiste said cheerfully, his French-Canadian accent carrying more warmth than Tate usually had patience for. “What’s got you in a good mood,eh?”
Tate’s first instinct was to shrug him off, to jerk his shoulder away and snap something sharp that would put the man back in his place. He wasn’t used to people touching him, wasn’t used to anyone noticing his moods—especially when they were good ones. His private moments were meant to stay private.
But for once, Tate didn’t retreat. Maybe it was the echo of Nettie’s words buzzing through his veins like caffeine. Maybe it was the flicker of hope that refused to be tamped down. Whatever it was, it had him lifting his gaze to meet Batiste’s grin instead of scowling it away.
“My girlfriend,” Tate said, and the words felt foreign and fragile on his tongue. His voice cracked slightly, betraying him. He swallowed, straightened, and added, “Where’s a really nice place to take a girl when you want to impress her?”
Batiste blinked. Then his eyebrows shot up as his smile stretched into something downright gleeful.
“Qu’est que c’est?”Batiste said in disbelief, his voice pitching high as if Tate had just announced he was growing wings. “You grew up ‘ere…”
“Things and places change,” Tate snapped, too fast, the sharpness covering the sudden prickle of embarrassment in his chest. He blew out a breath, forced himself to relax his jaw before it locked tight. “It’s been a few years since I’ve lived here. I don’t go out to eat much, and I want to impress her. I’m asking—genuinely asking—so please don’t make me regret this…”
Batiste’s grin softened, the mocking edge fading. He raised his hands in mock surrender, then dropped into the seat besideTate, leaning forward on his elbows as though ready to share a secret.
“Non,” Batiste said simply, his tone lowering into something almost conspiratorial. “You should talk to Thierry. My Aimee likes to stay at ‘ome, but Thierry is friends with the owner ofun bellerestaurant that isc’est bonne…” He exaggerated the last words, rolling them thickly, then lifted his fingers and kissed them dramatically like a cartoon chef.
Tate pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thierry?” he echoed, hesitating, grimacing as the name settled heavy on his tongue. Of course, it had to be Thierry.
The man was built like some Viking god dragged off a battlefield… but only if it was a Viking god who wanted to be chummy with you. The man was built for war but was a poodle around his wife. Tate had called him ‘Fluffy’ once. Twice. Okay, maybe more than a few times, because he’d thought it was clever. Cutting. A jab at the overgrown golden retriever’s image.
Thierry hadn’t found it clever.
And then there’d been that Wolverines game, when one of the Ex-players had gone too far, laughingly calling Thierry‘Fat Clairol’across the ice. Tate had thought for sure Thierry would tear the man apart with his bare hands.
Instead, Thierry had laughed –hugging the man– and spoke with him for a few moments before they lined up. When the game started, the second the whistle blew, Thierry played like a man possessed, flattening anyone in his path. By the time the horn sounded, no one dared repeat the nickname. The captain made it clear in the locker room that anyone stupid enough to mock him again wasn’t playing for the next five games.
And Tate, for once in his life, had shut up.
Now, though, the thought of having to ask Thierry of all people for advice about impressing Nettie made Tate’s stomach churn. He would rather take a punch to the jaw.
But Nettie was worth it.
If he could swallow his pride long enough.
The cold air of the rink clung to Tate’s lungs as he pushed off the boards, skating hard across the clean stretch of ice. His blades carved deep lines into the glossy surface, each stride powerful but controlled. He was careful today—deliberately careful. He kept his distance from Thierry, stuck to the drills, and followed every instruction Coach Côte barked out like it was gospel. No wasted energy, no showing off, no mistakes.
Just solid, technical hockey.
The team rotated through shooting drills, pucks clattering against the boards and ringing off the pipes. They raced end to end, the sound of blades slicing and skates grinding filling the cavernous arena. Tate’s muscles burned, but in a good way—everything in sync, body and mind. The ice was perfect beneath him, smooth as glass, and his form felt sharp. He could tell the guys were looking forward to Friday’s matchup against the Kodiaks; the energy was different. It buzzed, almost giddy, beneath the fatigue of practice.
And then it happened.
“Cassidy! See me after practice…”
Coach Côte’s voice cut through the chatter like a knife, stopping Tate in his tracks. His heart jolted. Heads swiveled. A few guys smirked, a few winced in sympathy. Being called out infront of the team always felt like standing under a spotlight, raw and exposed.
From the corner of his eye, Tate noticed Thierry and Coach already bent over the clipboard, their heads close, voices low. Every so often, Thierry jabbed a finger toward the ice, his brow furrowed as if dissecting every detail. Tate’s gut twisted. He knew that look—Thierry whispering in the coach’s ear, probably complaining about him again.
Great.
Just great.
The history between them was bad enough. Therapy sessions are because of “team dynamics.” That one ugly punch that had nearly broken his nose. And now this—another ambush waiting at the end of practice.
He skated harder, faster, trying to shove down the creeping dread. But by the time Coach finally blew the whistle, signaling the end, Tate’s chest felt tight. The other players were already laughing, tugging at their gear as they clomped toward the tunnel. He lingered, circling back toward the two men waiting for him at the bench.
He braced himself.
