“Just working through some technical adjustments.”
“Right.” Masterson’s eyes narrow. “He’s…ah…he’s been dealing with a lot of pressure lately. Family stuff, media attention. You might want to ease into things.”
The warning in his voice is unmistakable. Masterson’s clearly appointed himself Tate’s unofficial protector, and he’s telling me to back the fuck off. If only he knew that backing off isn’t an option.
“Got it,” I say.
He skates away, his heated gaze on me throughout warm-ups. He’s not the only one, either. Cam Foster keeps shooting glances between me and Tate. whispering to Van Kleef and Larson. I get weird looks from other guys, too. Guarded looks, looks that say don’t fuck around with our brother.
The team knows something’s wrong. They just don’t know what. And they’d run my ass out of here if they knew the truth.
“Barnes,” I call out when warm-ups end. “Let’s get to work.”
He skates over without a word, his face blank. But I can see the storm brewing under his calm, cool façade. The fury from yesterday is bubbling below the surface, ready to erupt.
And since I want to keep it contained, we start simple. Basic angle work that should be automatic for someone with four years in the league. I set up the first scenario and wait for him to show me his positioning.
“Forward coming down the left side,” I call out. “Show me your angle.”
He moves into position, but something’s off. His timing’s a half-beat slow, his stance conservative when it should be aggressive. Like he’s questioning every movement instead of trusting his instincts.
“Again,” I say after the third rep. “You’re hesitating.”
“Am I?”
The question comes out flat. But I can hear the edge underneath it.
“Yes. You’re reading it right, but you’re second-guessing yourself.”
“Maybe I have good reason to second-guess myself.”
He’s not talking about hockey, and we both know it.
I skate closer, dropping my voice so the other players can’t hear. “Whatever personal shit we have stays off the ice. This is about your career. Nothing else.”
“Right.” His dry laugh is hollow. “Because you care so much about my career.”
The sarcasm cuts deep, but I can see something else stirring beneath the sarcasm. Pain. The kind that comes from having your trust shattered when you’re at your most vulnerable.
“I care about getting you back to where you belong,” I say.
“Do you? Or is this just another job for you?”
Before I can answer, he skates away to reset. But the damage is done. There’s no professional understanding between us. Just a gaping wound I keep tearing open.
The tension is thick and toxic. The team scrimmage is a fucking disaster.
Tate lets in four goals that any decent beer league goalie should be able to stop in his sleep. Soft shots from bad angles, routine saves that somehow slip past him like he’s not even there. Each goal rattles him more, which makes the next save harder because now he’s overthinking it, and I have a front-row seat to the unraveling of a four-year veteran.
By the fourth goal, his teammates grouse and mutter. Carter calls for a water break and skates straight to the net for a quick word with Tate.
“Talk to me,” he says, loud enough for me to hear. “What’s going on out there?”
“Nothing’s going on.” But Tate’s voice is tight. “I’m just having an off day.”
“Four off days in a row?” Carter presses. “What the hell is happening, Tate? Are you having issues with the new coach? Enver wants to get you help. Hell, we all do. But if you’re not straight with us about the actual problem?—”
“There’s no problem,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m fucking fine, Carter.”
