Until Vegas. Until Zane.
“It just was.”
Mark’s giving me that look again, the one that says he knows I’m hiding something but he can’t figure out what. It’s the same look he gave me when I was sixteen and came home with a black eye that I swore was from hockey practice but was actually from getting cornered by three guys who thought I was checking them out in the locker room.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” he says quietly while Mom and Tessa grab some more plates from the kitchen. “Whatever’s going on, I’m here.”
Mark’s always been the one person I could tell anything to. When I broke Dad’s favorite mug, Mark took the blame. When I crashed Dad’s car into a tree before getting my license, Mark said the accident was his fault.
This is different, though. And as much as I wish he could fix things like he did in the past, he can’t.
“I know,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
He eyes me for a long minute. “Just remember, whatever happens with hockey, you’ve got family. That matters more than any game.”
“I know that, too.”
“Yeah, but sometimes I think you forget. You get so wrapped up in being perfect, in meeting everyone’s expectations, that you forget we love you no matter what.”
“Hey Tate,” Logan says, approaching our table with Cam and a beer. “Good to see you again.”
“You too.” I stand up to shake his hand. “How’s retirement treating you?”
“Can’t complain. But I miss being on the ice with the team.” His expression turns serious. “Heard you’re dealing with somethings this season. Don’t let it get in your head. Everyone goes through rough patches.”
“Thanks. I’m working through it.”
“Good. You’ve got too much talent to let anything get in your way.” Logan glances toward where Cam rushes over to help Mom arrange food on the buffet table. “You’ve always been one of the most dedicated guys on the team. It’s hard to rise above things holding you back but it’s not impossible.”
Jesus, is this barbecue really a fucking intervention? Because it sure as hell feels that way.
“Dinner’s ready,” Dad announces. Everyone jumps up from their spots and heads toward the food.
I hang back and let out a breath, watching my family and friends, envying how easy things are with their significant others. The casual touches, shared jokes, comfortable silences.
I want that. I want to have that special person by my side.
So, I continue to lie about who I am, dodging questions about my love life, and pretend that the most important relationship in my life doesn’t exist.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the screen. Nothing else from Zane.
How much longer before I tell him to shit or get off the pot?
“Tate?” Tessa’s voice breaks through my spiral. “You eating?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
I shove the phone back in my pocket and join my family at the table.
“So,” Mom says, picking up her fork. “Tell us about this new goalie coach everyone’s talking about. The one who’s supposed to help fix your game.”
The bite of pasta salad I just shoved into my mouth turns to ash.
“What about him?” I rasp.
“Is he good? Mark said he’s young, played professionally himself.”
“He’s... experienced.”
