I look up to find Coach Enver standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
“My office. Now.”
Christ. Not again.
My stomach tightens, but I keep my face neutral and nod. Getting called to the coach’s office after a conversation with the new hire is probably not a good sign.
I follow him down the hallway, my sneakers thumping against the concrete floor. His office feels smaller than usual when he closes the door behind us. The walls close in once we’re inside, my lungs working hard to pull in air.
“Sit.”
I drop into the chair across from his desk, the same uncomfortable piece of furniture where my world started shifting two days ago.
“Christensen filled me in on your conversation,” Enver begins, leaning back in his chair, hands folded over his belly. “Says you two have a good understanding of what needs to be worked on.”
Understanding. That’s one way to put it.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Because I need this partnership to succeed, Barnes. Your inconsistency is becoming a team issue.”
“I know, Coach. I’m working on it.”
“I hope so, because you’ve been distracted for weeks. Missing reads you used to make in your sleep, hesitating on routine saves.”
He’s not wrong. Ever since the media started asking more personal questions, ever since my parents ramped up the pressure about grandchildren, ever since Mark started getting serious with Tessa and I realized how lonely I actually am, my focus has been shit.
But I can’t tell him any of that.
“Just a rough patch,” I say instead, repeating what I told Zane. “Every goalie goes through them.”
“Not four-year veterans. Not guys I’m counting on to anchor this team through a playoff run.”
His expectations settle on my shoulders like a lead blanket. This is what I’ve wanted since I was twelve years old, to be theguy a team depends on. Now that I’m that guy, I’m fucking it up because I can’t get my personal life sorted out.
“I won’t let the team down, Coach.”
“Prove it. Tomorrow’s practice, I want to see the Tate Barnes who’s been our backbone for four years. Not this distracted version who’s been showing up lately.”
“You will.”
He studies my face for a long minute. “Whatever’s going on in your head, figure it out. Fast. This team is counting on you.”
“Yes, sir.”
I stand up and head for the door, but his voice stops me before I can leave.
“And Barnes? Work with Christensen. I don’t care if you like his methods or not. He’s here to help you get back to where you belong. Where I know you should be.”
“Got it.”
But as I walk back toward the locker room, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to work with someone who represents everything I’ve been trying to bury for two years.
The thing is, Coach Enver is right. I have been distracted. But it’s not because of one night in Vegas - it’s because of everything that night represented. Everything it made me realize about myself that I’m still too scared to face.
And now the guy who opened that door is back looking so much fucking hotter than I remember, pretending to be qualified to fix my problems.
The irony would be funny if it weren’t so fucking complicated.
