I clench and unclench my fingers under the table. “No, we’re gonna figure out how to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Right. Because it’s that simple.”
The exhaustion in his face makes something twist in my chest. This is my fault. All of it. His shitty performance, his crushed confidence, the way he’s sitting there like he expects me to tear him apart.
“It is that simple,” I say, shifting the laptop. “You’re a good goalie who had a bad game. It happens.”
“Coach Enver doesn’t seem to think so. Neither does the media. Or my family.”
“What did your family say?”
“They’re worried about me. They think that I should talk to someone about what’s going on.” His eyes latch onto mine, and my gut twists.
Because they’re right. He should talk to someone. Just not someone who’s the source of all his problems.
“Let’s start with the first goal,” I say, clicking play on the video.
The footage shows Tate in perfect position as Seattle’s forward comes barreling down the left wing. He tracks the play, positioning himself to make an easy save.
Then the puck slides between his legs.
“What do you see?” I ask.
“I see me fucking up a save I should make in my sleep.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the expert.”
There’s an edge to his voice that has nothing to do with hockey.
“I see a goalie who’s not focused on the puck,” I say. “Your positioning’s right, your angle’s good, but you’re not tracking the release.”
“So what was I tracking, Professor?”
But we both know the answer. He was tracking me. Watching me behind the bench instead of watching the shooter.
“I don’t know,” I lie. “That’s what we need to figure out.”
“Bullshit.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “You know exactly what I was looking at. Just like you know exactly why I can’t focus anymore.”
I close the laptop and look at him. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to admit that this is your fault. That I’m falling apart because I can’t stop thinking about you. That every time I’m in the net, I’m more focused on where you are than where the puck is.”
“That’s not my fault. That’s on you.”
His eyes widen when the words come out, much harsher than I intended. But I can’t swallow them back. And maybe I don’t want to. Because he’s right. This is destroying him, and it’s destroying me too.
“My fault?” His voice goes quiet. “For what? For wanting someone who keeps jerking me around? For letting you get in my head after you completely fucked me over at a time I was most vulnerable? How the hell can you blame me for that?”
“You need to be able to separate your personal life from your professional life and you aren’t.”
Christ, I hate myself more with every syllable that comes out of my goddamn mouth.
“My personal life? What personal life? You mean the part where I let you suck my cock in an empty arena and then pretend it never happened?”
“Keep your voice down.”
