Chapter 14
TATE
Nervous.
One word.
Two syllables.
Thousands of reasons.
The locker room felt too small, too hot, too loud.
Tate’s leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, an involuntary twitch that made the metal frame of the bench beneath him tremble.
His hands—already wrapped in his lucky gloves—were shaking, sweat clinging to his skin despite the air-conditioning that hummed faintly overhead.
They’d already gone through their pregame speech.
He’d already gone through his rituals, every step followed with the precision of a man desperate to cling to order.
His stick was wrapped perfectly in his favorite tape.
Penny tucked into the right skate—edge sharp, just like he liked it.
Gloves that smelled faintly of leather and old sweat pulled snug around his fingers.
He should’ve felt prepared. He should’ve felt ready.
He didn’t.
Because tonight wasn’t just about hockey. Tonight was about proving that he belonged.
The Wolverines weren’t just another team—they were the team. The team that had stolen three Coyotes veterans, the team that had ripped holes in their lineup and forced management to fill them with new blood. With him. With Dominic. With Justin.
And now those three deserters—Coeur, Lafreniére, Boucher—sat just yards away in the opposing locker room, probably laughing their heads off. Tate could still see them in his mind’s eye, grinning like cats fat off cream, relaxed and loose while his insides coiled tight as a spring.
They were either going to win tonight or get obliterated. And Nettie would be there to see it.
That thought punched harder than any body check.
He adjusted his helmet strap for the fifth time, even though it was already perfect, then dared a glance around the room.
His teammates were buzzing—taping sticks, tugging jerseys, muttering little half-jokes to bleed off tension.
The scent of muscle rub and ice packs lingered in the air, cut by the faint ozone tang of the ice waiting just outside.
Coach C?te’s voice cracked through the chaos. “Let’s line up, fellas!” he barked, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go! Let’s move it!”
The guys surged to their feet, half-shoving each other toward the tunnel like kids racing for recess.
Tate stayed where he was, silently rolling his eyes.
It was pointless to jockey for position.
The announcers called their names in a fixed order—always the same, always predetermined.
But no one ever accused hockey players of being logical before a game.
The first fireworks popped overhead, their booms rattling the rafters, and the crowd roared so loudly Tate’s pulse jumped with it. He could feel the energy bleeding through the concrete, a living, breathing wall of noise that would only get louder once the puck dropped.
“Let’s go,” Coach urged again, but this time his grin softened the order. “Quick hellos, then get ready for action, boys…”
Tate froze.
No announcements? No lineup?
Just… straight to the ice?
That had to be bad luck.
His doubt must have shown, because Coach C?te slapped a hand on his shoulder, chuckling as though Tate’s nerves were a private joke.
“My wife’s out there,” Coach explained, tone low, like he was sharing a secret. “We’ve got an image to uphold. We’re the golden boys of hockey—we play right, sign autographs, and show the world what it means to be a Coyote. So we make an appearance, show there are no hard feelings. But…”
Tate raised a brow, half-standing as the surge of men pulled them toward the tunnel. “But?”
Coach’s grin sharpened into something dangerous.
“But I want you to make it hurt.” His eyes flicked toward the opposite side of the arena, where Wolverines jerseys gleamed under the lights.
“Take every shot, make every point count, and ignore the trash talking. Because they hired the big mouth I used to have here, and brought on another one just as bad, or worse, than Barrett Coeur—Jett Acton.”
Tate groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.
Jett Acton was notorious. A maniac in skates, with a smile sharp enough to cut glass and a reputation for making enemies faster than goals.
Tate had a run-in with him last year, and he kept telling the referee that Tate was throwing pennies on the ice to trip him up, and then the annoying jerk would actually drop a penny, blaming it on him, and landing Tate in the penalty box repeatedly.
In fact, Acton winked at him once as he casually tossed the little brown coin, and Tate nearly came unhinged.
Yeah, Jett Acton was borderline insane, devious, or both - and there was no telling what he’d say or do on the ice to get under your skin… all while smiling. And now he’d have to deal with him again.
The arena announcer’s voice boomed overhead, dragging him back into the moment.
Welcome to the North Texas Coyotes Arena, and have we got a show for you tonight.
This evening, old meets new, as we’ve got a makeshift reunion on the ice and a divided house.
The Wolverines harvested a few players from our team – and the Coyotes have reacted with three players that have the grit, the nerve, and the determination to show their fans that they’ve still got it…
Tate forced his skates onto the ice, the cold slickness biting under his blades. Normally, this was the moment he lived for—the rush of stepping under the lights, the fans screaming, his name echoing like thunder—his two seconds of glory. Tonight, though, the ritual was broken.
And broken rituals were bad luck.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three Coyotes already gliding toward three Wolverines—old teammates hugging like it was a reunion picnic instead of a grudge match. Tate rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.
Well, this is an interesting twist as the spouses of the team make their appearances near the penalty box…
Have you ever seen anyone slice up a jersey like that? Maybe they should be in the penalty box…
I think the players and coaches would disagree…
The noise wasn’t unusual.
What got him was the spectacle.
Some of the wives had gone all out, their faces painted down the middle—half in the Wolverines’ dark blue, half in the Coyotes’ blistering green. Tate’s stomach rolled. They weren’t even subtle about it.
Rival colors.
Rival jerseys.
Rival pride, mashed together like some chaotic patchwork quilt. Where was the team loyalty? If those guys left, they were no longer Coyotes but Wolverines – so why celebrate and honor that?
“Sacrilege,” he muttered hotly under his breath, shaking his head.
And it got worse.
One woman cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled so shrilly Tate swore the rafters trembled.
Another pair unleashed cans of Silly String in glittering arcs that caught the arena lights like neon confetti.
The coach’s wife—God bless her enthusiasm—fired an air horn that jolted Tate clean out of his thoughts, his shoulders hunching against the blaring sound.
But it wasn’t random.
The moment that horn blasted, the entire section of families stirred, voices rising in a rough chorus. Some were singing—off-key, boisterous, heartfelt. Tate’s eyes flicked over the sea of familiar faces and landed on one in particular. His sister.
Right beside her, Nettie.
Nettie… cheeks flushed with excitement.
And beautiful.
Nettie was so… beautiful.
Before he could get stuck staring, another whistle rang out, sharp and commanding, and four of the wives stepped forward, tugging up their jerseys like they were about to flash the whole arena in a mimicry of Bourbon Street – except they showed tummies, not breasts.
No beads tossed, but the effect was there, and the crowd saw it – and gasped before erupting in a roar that was deafening.
Tate’s eyes widened.
Painted across their stomachs were numbers. Bright, bold, impossible to miss – and the meaning exceedingly clear to anyone with a brain.
The first woman revealed a pink five, grinning ear to ear on a swollen stomach.
The second showed a blue four, pumping her fist triumphantly – also with a distended belly.
The third—her chin trembling, tears threatening to spill—displayed a yellow three, and touched her belly.
Then Coach C?te’s wife jostled the infant in her arms, belly proudly painted with a green two and beaming. The coach’s wife was pregnant again? Didn’t she give birth a few months ago?
Tate blinked, trying to catch up. Pregnancies.
Each of those women was pregnant. Each number counting the months.
Each announcement is a bigger gut-punch than the last. Was it something in the water – sheesh?
Even Molly, Thierry’s wife, and the Coyotes’ physical therapist was there, holding a pregnancy test and looking emotional as the arena erupted.
Thierry, their captain, the fearless leader and buddy that everyone looked up to, melted.
His helmet was barely off before he was staggering toward her, his face raw with emotion.
He cradled her like she was made of glass, laughter and tears tangled together as he touched her stomach with reverence.
The players clapped sticks against the boards, whooping and hollering.
Families screamed.
Strangers cheered.
And Tate— he couldn’t even be mad. The guy was having a moment, hearing that he was going to be a father for the first time. Tate’s gaze slid away from the captain… and landed squarely on Nettie.
She wasn’t laughing like before. Her eyes shimmered, wide and wet, her smile radiant in a way that nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. She looked moved and completely swept up in the emotion of it all.
And Tate—stone-cold, keep-to-himself Tate—felt it.
Why? Why was she reacting to a bunch of guys turning into emotional puddles over pregnancy announcements? Was it because she wanted that? A baby? A family?
The thought hit him so hard it almost bent him in half.
Nettie.
With a baby.