He’s given me forty-eight hours to figure out which Oakland players might be vulnerable to syndicate pressure, specifically Tate. To catalog their weaknesses, their pressure points, their potential breaking points.
To compile a shopping list for these criminals.
I walk over to a young kid with two missing front teeth and an Oakland jersey two sizes too big.
“Hey, bud. My name is Coach Christensen. What’s your name?”
“It’s Alex,” he says. “Can you show me how to do that save the goalie did last night?”
Parker’s glove save from the second period. The one that had the entire arena on its feet while I watched from the bench, knowing I was witnessing the beginning of Tate’s worst nightmare.
“Sure thing.” I grab a plastic goalie stick from the equipment pile and crouch down to the kid’s level, the same way my father used to.
“I want to be a goalie when I grow up,” Alex says. “Like Tate Barnes.”
“He’s one of the greats,” I say, positioning him in front of a makeshift net. My father’s voice echoes in my head.
“Read the shooter’s eyes, not his stick. Eyes never lie.”
“Now, the key to a good glove save is reading the shot early... ”
Across the gym, I spot Tate working with a group of younger kids. He’s in his element, patient and encouraging as he helps a tiny girl who can barely hold her stick. His face is relaxed in a way I haven’t seen since Vegas. No tension, no guarded anger. Just warmth.
This is who he really is underneath all the defensive walls. The personality that his teammates see, the one that drew me to him that night in the bar.
My chest aches.
“Like this?” Alex asks, attempting the glove motion. I snap back to attention.
“Perfect. Now remember, you want to catch the puck, not just block it.” I demonstrate the proper technique while part of my attention stays fixed on Tate.
He’s moved to a group of teenagers nearby, showing them proper stance and positioning. One kid, probably fourteen or fifteen, is hanging on his every word, star-struck.
“Mr. Barnes,” another kid says, “my dad says you might not be the starter for Oakland anymore. Is that true?”
Tate’s smile falters for just a second. But he recovers quickly. “Hockey’s a team sport, buddy. Sometimes coaches make changes to help the team win. That’s just part of the game.”
“But you’re still gonna play, right? You’re not gonna quit or anything?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Tate says firmly. “I promise.”
The confidence in his voice is forced, but the kid doesn’t notice. He grins and goes back to practicing his stance, satisfied that his hero isn’t disappearing.
I watch Tate’s shoulders sag when he thinks no one’s looking. Something is wearing him down…maintaining that promise or projecting confidence he doesn’t feel.
“Coach, watch this!” Alex calls out, attempting another save.
I force my attention back to him, but Tate’s presence is so strong, pulling me closer. Every time he laughs with the kids, every moment of happiness on his face, it all drives the knife of guilt deeper into my chest.
Two hours later, the event winds down. Kids pack up their new equipment, taking pictures with players, joking and laughing.
“Good work today.” Carter walks over to me as I pack up the extra sticks. “The kids love having a goalie coach here. Usually it’s just position players.”
“They’re good kids. Excited to learn.”
“Alex seemed pretty attached to you. He barely left your side.”
I glance over at Alex, who’s showing his mom the new gloves we gave him. “He’s got natural instincts. With the right coaching, he could be really good.”
