“You sound like you care.” Carter’s studying me. Perceptive bastard. “That’s good. Sometimes guys do these events just for the PR.”
“It’s not about PR.”
“No, I can see that.” He pauses, watching Tate help a group of kids organize their new equipment. “Barnes is good with them too. He loves to teach. He’s a natural. “
“Yeah, he is.”
“He’s been having a rough stretch lately.” Carter’s tone is casual, but I can hear the underlying concern. “It’s good to see him relaxed like this.”
“These events are good for everyone.”
Carter nods, but I can see him filing away my non-answer. He’s too smart to push, but he’s definitely picking up on something.
Tate appears beside us. “Ready to go?”
Tension thickens the air. Tate’s eyes flick between me and Carter, a glimmer of wariness in his expression.
“Yeah, Coach and I were just talking about the event,” Carter says. “These kids are lucky to have programs like this.”
“Yeah.” Tate’s gaze settles on me. “Real lucky.”
“I should get going.” I grab my jacket from a nearby chair. “See you both at practice tomorrow.”
“Actually,Coach,” Tate says, his words stopping me, “we should probably talk about tomorrow’s session. Make sure we’re on the same page.”
Carter takes the hint. “I’ll wait for you outside. Have a good night, Coach.”
He walks away, leaving me alone with Tate in the rapidly emptying facility.
“What were you and Carter talking about?” Tate asks.
“The event. How good you are with the kids.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He studies my face, like he’s trying to decide whether to believe me. The paranoia in his expression makes my gut clench. He’s used to being discussed, analyzed, judged.
“Look, I know what you think of me. That I’m some broken player who can’t handle the pressure. Some case study for you to fix and move on from.”
“That’s not what I think.”
“No? Then what do you think?”
The honest answer would destroy everything. That I think about him constantly and it’s killing me. Watching him with those kids today reminded me of everything I fell for in Vegas.
“I think you’re better than you know,” I say instead.
His expression shifts. Surprise creeps in. Or maybe it’s hope.
“Prove it,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“At tomorrow’s practice, stop treating me like I’m made of glass. Push me. Challenge me. Treat me like the goalie you think I can be, not the one who’s been falling apart.”
It’s a dangerous request. Pushing him means getting closer, working more intimately, breaking down the professional barriers I’ve been desperately trying to maintain.
