He runs a hand through his dark hair.
I clench my fists at my sides. I did the same thing that night. I can still feel the glossy strands sliding through my fingers.
And still, he doesn’t give me anything, which is answer enough.
“Yep. Thanks for confirming.” I head for the door again with a shake of my head.
“Tate, stop.”
“Stop what? Acting like it doesn’t bother me?” I pause with my hand on the door handle. “Trust me, it doesn’t. You know why? Because I learned something that night. I learned not to trust guys who seem too good to be true. No one is.”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” I ask, my eyes widening. “Who said anything about being hurt? You did me a favor. Taught me a valuable lesson about keeping my guard up.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious, his eyes trying damn hard to read what’s behind my gaze. Good. Let him wonder.
“The only thing that pisses me off,” I say, “is that now I have to see you every day and pretend you’re qualified to coach me. Because let’s be real, who the fuck could believe anything yousay? Do you even have credentials? Besides knowing how to spot vulnerable players and take advantage of them?”
“I played professionally for several years.”
“Where? Because I’ve never heard of you.”
Another flash of something across his face. Looks like pain.
Or guilt.
Interesting. Maybe he’s got skeletons. Good. I hope they fucking take his ass down one day when I’m around to enjoy the shitshow.
“Minor leagues mostly.”
“Right. And now you’re an expert on NHL goaltending.” I shake my head, another dry laugh slipping out. “This should be fun.”
I pull open the conference room door. “We both know why you’re really here. Coach Enver thinks I need fixing, and you probably convinced him you’re the guy to do it. I have no fucking clue why, but fine. Just remember that every time you step onto the ice, every time you say something to me, every time you judge or critique me, I’ll know who you really are…a fucking two-faced fraud.”
“Wecanmake this work professionally.” His voice wavers.
“Of course we can. Because despite what you might think, I’m not some broken little boy who can’t handle seeing his one-night stand again.” I meet his eyes and hold his gaze long enough to make him look away. “I’m a four-year NHL veteran who’s going through a rough patch. It happens to everyone.”
“Your performance issues... ”
“Have nothing to do with you. My game’s been off for a few weeks because I’ve got other shit going on. Family pressure, contract negotiations, media attention. The usual crap that comes with this job.”
It’s not total bullshit. My parents want me to settle down. The spotlight on me is getting brighter. And yeah, watching myteammates in happy relationships while I’m faking it eats at me every day.
But Vegas is what cracked me open. Vegas made me realize what I’d been denying myself for years.
And then Zane vanished. No note, no explanation, nothing. Like what happened wasn't worth a goodbye. It’s hard to come out to the world when the one time you let yourself be real, the guy bolted.
Not that I’m telling him any of that.
“So whatever fantasy you have about being my savior,” I continue, “you can forget it. I don’t need saving, and I sure as hell don’t need you.”
“Then what do you need?”
The question catches me off guard. There’s something in his voice that sounds almost genuine, like he actually cares about my answer.
“To do my job without any distractions.” I step into the hallway. “Think you can manage that,Coach?”
