But I’m not going to let him see any of that. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his presence has any effect on me.
Because I’m not some broken kid who needs saving. I’m a professional athlete with a job to do.
And I’ll be damned if I let anyone, especially him, think otherwise.
FOUR
zane
My hands won’t stop shakingas I arrange my practice notes for the third time this morning.
Yesterday’s confrontation with Tate loops through my mind like a broken record. His fury, the way he called me out for targeting him, the disgust burning in his eyes. I’ve stared down syndicate enforcers who could snap my neck with their bare hands, but somehow one pissed-off goalie had me more rattled than any of them ever did.
The conference room still smells like the coffee Coach Enver was drinking when he grilled me about Tate yesterday. Now I’m supposed to get on the ice with Tate and pretend we can work together like nothing happened.
I check my phone again. Still no calls from Sunrise Manor. The silence should be a relief, but it’s not. When they don’t call, it means my father’s having one of his bad days. The kind where he doesn’t remember he has a son.
“Ready for this?” Coach Enver appears in the doorway, steam rising from his coffee mug.
“Of course.” I hand Enver a folder with my practice plans, my gut clenching. “Basic positioning work with Barnes, then team scrimmage.”
Enver glances at the papers, but I can tell his mind’s somewhere else. His jaw tenses and he taps the top of the folder.
After a long pause, he finally speaks. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two yesterday, but Barnes left here looking like he wanted to put someone through the boards.”
Fuck. So much for keeping things professional.
“First sessions can be intense,” I say, arranging my pens in a straight line. “Players don’t always like having their techniques questioned.”
“Barnes isn’t usually defensive about coaching. Kid’s been solid since he got here.” Enver sets down his coffee mug and a little bit sloshes over the rim. His thick eyebrows knit together and he stares me down. “I need you to level with me. Is there some kind of history between you two?”
Shit. For a split second, the truth dances on the tip of my tongue. I consider telling him everything. About Vegas, about the FBI, about how I’m the absolute worst person in the world to help Tate Barnes get his shit together.
But I can’t. So I lie instead.
“We’ve never worked together before. But sometimes personalities clash initially.”
“And if they don’t stop clashing?”
“They will. Barnes wants to win more than anything else. I got that from our conversation.”
I hope the competitor in him will override our personal history long enough for me to figure out how to unfuck this situation.
Enver doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “All right. But if this becomes a problem, I need to know. I can’t have my starting goalie distracted by coaching bullshit.”
“Understood.”
He leaves, and I’m alone with my shaking hands and the noose of too many lies tightening around my neck.
Twenty minutes later, I stand behind the bench watching players warm up on fresh ice. My chest aches as I take it all in. The sounds are familiar…skates carving through the smooth surface, pucks smacking off the boards, the low rumble of conversations between players.
A pang hits my chest as I scan the ice. I miss it. Badly. But I made choices. Bad fucking choices, and I’m never going to get back what I lost. Deep down, I know I have to accept that and move on, but every time I step out, it all comes crashing back…the anger, the fear, and all the regret that follows.
Carter van Kleef runs warm-ups, an obvious leader. He keeps glancing toward the net. Tate stretches in the crease, every movement controlled and precise. Too controlled. Like he’s trying to hold himself together because he knows what’s at stake if he unravels.
Masterson skates past the bench and slows down when he spots me watching.
“He’s been quiet this morning,” he says, nodding toward Tate. “More than usual. Everything go okay yesterday?”
