“What’s wrong?”
“I’m…oh man,” he said emotionally. “Nettie, I’m wearing the ‘C’ on Friday.”
“Is that good?”
“Captain,” he explained, chuckling thickly, almost like it was too much. “I’ll be the team captain on Friday when you come to the game – and I’m so excited I could just explode right now. Ihad to tell someone. I hope I’m not bothering you – but this is big for me, really big.”
Her chest tightened, her throat swelling with a rush of tenderness that almost choked her. Tate never called like this—unguarded, ecstatic, boyishly eager. Never. That he was choosing to share this moment with her was overwhelming in its sweetness.
“Oh, Tate, I’m so happy for you,” she said softly, her voice wobbling as tears pricked at her lashes. She wiped at her cheek, suddenly laughing at herself. “You deserve this shot, and I’m glad you are getting it.”
“Oh my gosh, I’ve been wanting this chance ever since I signed with the Coyotes… and… are you home?” His question tumbled out abruptly, eager, impulsive.
“Yes, I was just making a few things,” she answered carefully, glancing guiltily at the mess of bowls and powdered sugar dust coating her countertop.
“I’ll be there in a few.”
Her heart skipped. “You’re coming over?”
“Is that okay?”
“Absolutely,” she said nervously. “I’ll make some coffee and pick up really quickly. Yes – go ahead and come over.”
“On my way,” he said, hanging up.
And just like that, the line went dead.
For one suspended second, Nettie stood frozen with the phone in her hand. Then she let out a shriek that could’ve rattled the neighbors. Dropping everything, she bolted out of the kitchen, the forgotten peanut butter and sugar abandoned mid-recipe. Her house suddenly looked like the wreckage of a small tornado in her eyes. Her shoes were scattered near the couch, a throw blanket slouched off one side of the armrest, a mug with lipstick smudges on the coffee table.
She dashed around in a frenzy, scooping things up, shoving them into corners, heart racing like she was prepping for a royal inspection. He couldn’t see her like this. Not Tate.
Her gaze darted down at herself, and horror gripped her. A saggy T-shirt, flannel pajama pants, and—oh gosh—no bra. Her hair sat piled in a sad, lopsided knot that looked more “frazzled librarian” than “casually cute.”
“Kill me now,” she muttered, flying into her bedroom.
Shannon and Gina went to some gory movie, which Nettie hated those disgusting flicks with so much blood, guts, and gore that she ended up covering her eyes during most of it, so she thought she’d surprise Tate with some homemade buckeyes.
But now, he was surprising her!
As she quickly dressed, she shoved one arm through the shirt sleeve, while that hand reached for a perfume bottle. She didn’t want him to see her at her worst, and after a long day, running to the grocery, and just everything… she had thought to rest tonight.
Wrong.
The bathroom mirror was brutally honest. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair a wild halo escaping its knot. With a frustrated groan, she ripped the elastic out, dragging a brush through until it tumbled loose and shiny around her shoulders. Lipstick—yes, lipstick would help. She swiped on her favorite shade, her hand trembling, the cherry-red color instantly transforming her tired face into something almost put together.
A sharp knock rattled the front door.
Her stomach plunged.
“Coming!” Nettie called, her voice pitched higher than normal as she shoved the brush back onto the counter and bolted for the door. She gave the living room one last frantic scan—pillows straight, blanket folded, no socks in sight—before yanking it open.
And suddenly, she was airborne.
Tate had swept her into his arms, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around like she weighed nothing. The world blurred—flowers on the table, the glow of the lamp, the sound of her own startled laugh—before he set her back down gently, his grin lighting up his whole face.
“Hi,” she breathed, dizzy and giddy.
“Sorry,” he chuckled, sheepish yet incandescent. “I’m excited… this is insane.”
