But the look in his eyes makes his request impossible to refuse.
“Okay,” I say. “But don’t blame me if you don’t like my methods.”
“I can handle whatever you throw at me.”
The words hang, loaded with double meaning. We’re not just talking about hockey anymore, and we both know it.
“We’ll see,” I say.
I walk away before I can do something stupid, like reach for him.
I shiver, his eyes burning into my back until I’m out the door.
As I drive back to my hotel, I try not to think about the promise I just made to help Tate become the goalie he used to be.
Because helping him means getting closer to him.
And getting closer to him means risking everything I’ve been trying to protect.
Tomorrow, I’m going to push him harder than I’ve pushed anyone. And if that breaks down the walls between us...
Maybe some risks are worth taking.
Even if they might wreck everything else in the process.
ELEVEN
tate
This place feels different today.But not because there are no screaming crowds, teammate banter, or distractions.
It’s because of the way Zane looked at me yesterday when I said, “prove it.” Like I’d just dared him to do something that had fuck all to do with hockey.
I’ve been warming up for ten minutes, running through my usual stretches, waiting.
And damn curious.
My phone’s been buzzing all morning with texts and social media notifications about Parker’s performance. I’ve ignored them all. Today it’s just about getting my shit together on the ice.
The arena door opens, and Zane skates out, a bag of pucks slung over his shoulder. There’s something different about him today. He seems harder. More focused. Like he finally decided to stop treating me like I might break if he pushes too hard.
He arranges the pucks in a perfect line with the same obsessive organization I’ve noticed in everything he does. Papers on his desk, equipment in his bag, even the way he laces his skates. Control freak habits.
“You ready for this?” he asks, dumping the last few pucks on the ice.
“Depends on what ‘this’ is.”
“You wanted me to stop babying you. To actually coach you.” He grabs a puck and heads to center ice, blades cutting across the smooth surface. “So that’s what we’re gonna do.”
His voice has an edge of authority I haven’t heard before. Like he’s done playing games and decided to show me what he’s really capable of.
A shiver ripples through me, but it has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the new layer I’ve just peeled back.
“Good,” I say, dropping into my stance. “It’s about fucking time.”
The first shot comes hard and low to my blocker side. I drop and kick it away, but he’s already shaking his head before the puck hits the boards.
“Again. And don’t drop so early. Read the fucking release.”
