I haven’t seen my father in six months. Not since the FBI approached me with this deal that was supposed to keep both of us safe. He raised me by himself after my mother died when I was eight, worked two jobs to pay for hockey equipment and ice time, never missed a game even when he was dead on his feet.
And now, when he needs me most, I’m nowhere to be found.
The guilt sits in my stomach like a lead weight, mixing with the guilt about Tate and the pressure from Morrison and the constant fear that everything’s going to blow up in my face.
But I can’t think about that right now. I have a practice to get through, and after yesterday’s disaster, I need to find a way to actually help Tate instead of making everything worse.
Assuming he’ll let me help him, which is about as likely as the syndicate suddenly disbanding.
An hour later, I stand behind the bench with my clipboard watching players warm up on the ice. Tate’s in the crease,going through his stretches. When his eyes meet mine across the ice, there’s nothing there. No anger, no frustration, no acknowledgment that I even exist. Just cold, professional indifference that somehow feels worse than blood-boiling hatred.
At least hatred means he still feels something.
“Barnes,” I call out as warm-ups end. “Let’s work on your positioning.”
He skates over without a word, his face blank. But I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s gripping his stick like he wants to use it as a weapon.
“We’re going to start simple today,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Basic angle work. No pressure, just fundamentals.”
“Sure thing, Coach.” His voice is flat, toneless, and cold. A shiver runs through me.
We start with the most basic drills possible. Tate executes them perfectly.
And every movement is performed with all the passion of someone reading a grocery list.
“Good,” I say after the fifth repetition. “Now let’s add some speed.”
He nods and resets, still flawless, still emotionless. Like he’s a robot programmed to stop pucks without any of the instinct or feel that made him special.
“Tate,” I skate closer, dropping my voice. “You’re executing the techniques perfectly, but you’re not playing. You’re just going through the motions.”
“Isn’t that what you want? Perfect technique?”
“I want you to trust your instincts.”
“My instincts got me into this mess.” The words slip out before he can stop them, and for a split second, something flickers across his face. Vulnerability. Or regret. Maybe both.
Then the mask slides back into place, and he’s the emotionless robot again.
“Lemme run it again,” he says, skating back to his position.
We continue the drills for another ten minutes, each repetition technically accurate and completely lifeless. It’s like watching someone perform surgery on their own game, cutting out every piece of personality and instinct that made them who they are.
It’s fucking heartbreaking.
When the team scrimmage starts, Tate plays the exact same way. He stops the shots he’s supposed to stop and doesn’t try for anything spectacular. No diving saves, no aggressive challenges, no fire. He plays it safe but his movements are completely uninspired.
The worst part is, his teammates see it too. Carter keeps glancing at the net, his eyebrows furrowed. Masterson tries to create easier saves, clearly worried about his friend. Even Cam Foster, who’s usually focused entirely on his own game, keeps looking back to make sure Tate’s still breathing.
When practice finally ends, players come off the ice with the energy level of a team that’s watching their season slip away. Tate’s last to leave again, taking his time with his gear while the rest of the team trudges to the locker room.
I hang back, shuffling papers, waiting for him to acknowledge my existence. When he finally skates toward the bench, his movements are tired and listless.
“You did better today,” I say as he passes me.
He stops, not looking at me. “Yeah?”
“You executed everything perfectly.”
