I drop my eyes to my clipboard, keeping my face neutral as my ears strain to hear every word.
Cam joins the conversation.
“You know we’re here, right?” Cam says, clapping him on the back. “Whatever’s eating at you, we can help.”
“Nothing’s eating at me. Look, I know I’m not perfect, but who the fuck is?” I look up at the same moment Tate’s glare settles on me.
“It’s gonna get worse before it gets better,” Carter says. “Unless you face what’s really going on.”
Tate lets out a frustrated breath. “Jesus, guys. Can we just fucking play hockey?”
Carter and Cam exchange a look. They know their goalie’s drowning, but they don’t know how to throw him a lifeline if he refuses to grab it.
My stomach churns with guilt. These guys trust each other, support each other, and function like a well-oiled machine. And I’m the wrench that’s jamming up their gears and fucking with their operation.
The rest of practice becomes damage control. Carter adjusts the drills to give Tate easier saves. Masterson camps out in front of the net, providing extra coverage. Even the forwards start pulling their shots, nobody wanting to be responsible for breaking their goalie’s spirit.
But it’s too late. I’ve already done that.
When the final whistle blows, players skate to the bench like they’ve caught a glimpse of the rest of their season and it’s dismal as hell. They don’t laugh. They don’t joke. I’m surrounded by the heavy silence of guys who don’t know how to fix what’s broken. A few of them throw accusatory glances my way, like it’s my fault Tate is in a downward spiral.
Tate waits until everyone else is in the tunnel before he leaves the ice. He takes his time putting on his blade guards. When he stands, frustration and disappointment radiate from every inch of his body.
“That was... ” He starts to say, then stops, shaking his head.
“Rough,” I finish.
“Yeah. Rough.” He looks at me directly for the first time since the scrimmage started. “Is this how it’s gonna be? Because if it is, maybe Coach should find someone else to fix whatever the hell’s wrong with me.” He takes a few steps toward the tunnel, his backto me. Then, “I can’t do it. I thought I could, but I can’t. Not with you.”
The defeat in his voice cuts deeper than any insult could. This isn’t the angry, defiant man from yesterday. This is someone who’s starting to doubt everything about himself, including his ability to do the one thing he’s been great at his entire life.
“Tate... ”
“Don’t.” He holds up a gloved hand. “Just... don’t. I need to get out of here.”
He stalks away before I can say anything else, leaving me alone behind the bench.
My phone buzzes. For a second, I hope it’s Morrison with news that might somehow make this clusterfuck better. Instead, it’s a text from Sunrise Manor.
Mr. Christensen, your father had a difficult night. He was asking for you quite a bit. Thought you should know. - Sarah
I stare at the screen until the words blur. He was asking for me. While I was here destroying someone else’s life, my father was confused and scared and wondering why his son had abandoned him.
My fingers shake as I type a response.
Thank you. Please tell him I love him.
It’s not enough. It’s never enough. But it’s all I can give without putting him in danger.
I’m supposed to protect the people I care about, but all I do is hurt them. Tate, my father, even the teammates trying to support a goalie whose problems they can’t understand.
Everyone would be better off if I’d never walked back into their lives.
But I’m here now, and I’ve got a job to do. The FBI needs intelligence. Coach Enver needs his goalie fixed. Morrison needs me to maintain cover long enough to build a case.
The only problem is that every day I spend trying to fulfill those obligations, I destroy a little more of the man I’m supposed to be helping.
And I’m beginning to think that’s a price I can’t afford to pay.
