25. Tate
The riotous sounds of my teammates coming home after another win is deafening, and soul crushing at the same time.
I’m at the kitchen table, a few brews in, and my head hurts. The nice buzz from my meds-and-beer combo has worn off, and all that’s left is bitterness.
The guys burst into the kitchen with a clumsiness that tells me they’ve already started celebrating. Even the rookies are in good spirits.
After what they said about my girl, they’ve been in the doghouse. They’ve been doing scut work, cleaning, laundry, errands, whatever the fuck we need them to.
Doesn’t feel like enough. But I told the guys I’d lay off them. Or at least stay the fuck out of their way so I don’t rearrange their faces so they end up looking like me.
Except they’re here, standing right in front of me. Even how they breathe is offending me right now.
I need out.
I need to leave before I hit someone a dig in the face and end up on the whole team’s shit-list. More than I already am, anyway.
As I rise to leave, Mikko blocks my path. It was probably poor timing, but that’s not what my itching-to-fight body tells me, or my lizard brain.
“Sorry, man.” His face pales, his voice quivers. It’s nice to know he’s afraid of me. He should be.
If I’d been downstairs when he—or his buddy Rico—said whatever they did about Penelope’s size, I’d have ripped their heads off their bodies.
I grunt. Doing a lot of that lately. Not sure how to do much more than that when all that’s waiting on my tongue is acerbic put downs. It’s easy when Pitstop is around, she calms the raging fires that thrash through my veins. But here, surrounded by these people who are doing the one thing I want more than anything in the world right now, all I feel is fury.
A hand appears on my chest, as I trail my stare along the muscular limb I find it attached to Apollo. That tracks. Artemis would have felt too much like a threat, and despite the fact I probably still couldn’t take him, I’d have tried. But Apollo, the team’s captain, our leader, our heart, he makes a much less aggressive choice to confront me.
“You okay?” His voice is low, full of concern, but the eyes of some of the other guys in the room are on us as well.
Does everyone think I’m unhinged? Ready to snap at any given moment? Because that’s kind of how it feels.
My body vibrates, the ooze of resentment and the acrid taste of violence brewing in my cells sometimes make it hard to think. Beer helps. But then I get furtive glances from the guys, Especially Ares, which just makes me roll my eyes. I don’t have a problem. I can stop any time I want to.
I just don’t want to.
Life is easier to face when it’s lived through a hops-hue right now.
We’ve all been there, used the occasional adult beverage to make it through a tough moment. I dunno why they’re getting their panties in a bunch because it’s me. Is it because I’m the golden boy? The top scorer, the straight-A student, the untouchable son of an NHL superstar destined to be an NHL superstar myself?
Well, guess what? I’m not fucking perfect either. And it’s about time everyone realized it. They don’t even need me on the ice anyway, right?
The sting of how accurate that assessment is hits hard.
“Tate?” Apollo’s concerned eyes bore into my face. I should be touched, but all I want to do is head-butt the guy.
“I’m fine.” Every word I say comes out through gritted teeth so it all sounds aggressive whether I want it to or not.
His brow twitches like he’s not sure whether or not he should believe me, but after a long moment, the pressure of his splayed palm on my chest is released. I’m free to leave.
“Good game tonight.” The words are like acid on my tongue, but I need to at least seem to still be a team player. My problems are precisely that, mine. When I get back on the ice, I’m going to need at least a few of them to still be on my side.
I’m used to fighting for my place on the team. But this... I’m not sure I know how to come back from this.
“Okay.” His voice stays quiet. “Book club tomorrow?”
I tried it a few times. Okay, maybe once. But it’s such a waste of fucking time. Read a book that isn’t for school, make notes about it—either in your head or in a notebook—get together and talk about it, rinse and repeat.
Shaking my head, I swallow. “Busy.” Guess if nothing else, I should now invite Pitstop to come and save me from being dragged out to read Justin’s next romance selection for Get Lit. They had their book club last night, or the night before, I can’t remember, they’re all kind of blurred into one.
I know this month is different from normal, though, because usually the girls have theirs the same night as the team does, but this month didn’t line up.
“Let me know if you change your mind.” There’s more in what Apollo isn’t saying than what he is. The furrows on his forehead, the down-turned edges of his lips, and the slump of his shoulder all say defeat.
The man’s one of the top scoring players in the league, he’s already drafted to the NHL, he excels at school, and he’s rich.
Yet he’s standing in front of me deflated. And because I won’t go to a fuckin’ book club?
I drain the rest of my beer and toss the bottle into the recycling before grabbing another cold one from the fridge.
Ares raises a brow, but thankfully for everyone in the room, he stays quiet. The twins certainly won’t forgive me if I punch their younger brother in his face, even if sometimes they want to hit him, too.
Even trudging upstairs to my room feels like a slog.
Scott’s waiting for me outside my bedroom door. “Wanna talk about it?”
I blink, tipping my head in question.
“What’s going on with you, you wanna talk about it?” He’s sitting on the floor, knees up in front of his chest, back propped against the wall next to my door, and his bare feet in the UCR Raccoons green carpet that lines most of the hockey house.
He’s brave. I know what happens within the walls of this place.
“I’m fine.”
He snorts, with an eye roll that suggests I’m full of shit. “And I’m the Queen of England.” He takes a sip from a bottle that was apparently nestled by his leg on the floor. “You wanna sit with me?”
I’d rather reopen the wound in my face and rearrange my own teeth through a hole in my cheek, but he pats the floor next to him. There’s no getting out of this situation for me. I either go back downstairs and punch a de la Pe?a in the face, or I step over a brooding Scott to get to my room.
Wish everyone would just mind their own fucking business and leave me the hell alone.
I slide down the wall and plop on the floor next to him. He holds up his beer bottle and waits for me to clink mine against it.
“You won’t want to hear this.”
Gritting my teeth in preparation for whatever he’s about to throw at me isn’t an option. They’re already wired together. So all I can do is wait.
“But you’re not the first person to get fucked up during the game, Tate.”
He’s not wrong. In fact, Justin Bourne had damn near the same injury as I have, and it took him out of the game entirely. When his book came out about his life as a hockey player, Dad picked it up. It was something of a morbid fascination because Justin and I are very similar, so I couldn’t help but read it.
Both sons of NHL greats, both had to bust our asses to improve our game, to earn our places on good teams. Didn’t know at the time, but apparently I was reading my own prophecy.
The parallels between our lives are a painful reminder that my boy Scott here, is right. I’m not special. I’m not the only one who’s ever had an injury during the game we all love.
No matter what, the world keeps turning.
Isn’t that what’s bothering me most about my injury? That the team, the hockey world, the whole fucking planet just keeps turning without me.
I’m not special.
“I don’t mean that in a dickish way.”
Sounded kind of dickish to be fair.
“I mean there are plenty of us around here who have been where you are who can help you out.” He takes a long pull on his beer, his thumb sweeping up a bead of liquid as it meanders down the glass neck of the bottle. “And I don’t mean Ares’s non-profit, either.”
The youngest of the de la Pe?a’s set up a charity to help athletes come back from addiction.
Scott nudges my knee with his. “If you keep this shit up, though, you will need their help. You’re going off the rails.”
I open my mouth but he holds his hands up. “Don’t bother denying it. We’re all worried about you. Especially your woman. You’re pushing everyone away. And you’re drinking too much, especially when you’re still taking meds.”
I open my mouth again, but he gingerly covers my face with his palm. “When was the last time you talked to your parents?”
Fuck.
I hate when they’re right.
He nudges me again. “You’re going to have to let someone back in before you lose yourself.”
Shaking my head is all I can think to do. I’m afraid if I speak, I’ll cry.
“Maybe having someone who kicks you in the ass and challenges you can help certain people achieve their greater goals.”
“You’re quoting Justin Bourne at me?” It’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“Just making sure you read his book.”
“It was kind of required reading in my house. Dad had two copies, both signed.”
Scott takes another drink, giving me a slow nod. “Son of an NHL player. I get it. There are similarities for sure.”
“Are you talking about you guys kicking me in the ass? Or my folks?” I drain my bottle, wishing I’d brought another one upstairs with me.
“Actually, I meant Penelope.” He pushes his glasses up his crooked nose. You’d think that one of the many times he got his nose broken over the years would correct the slant, but I’m not sure glasses will ever sit straight on his face again.
“Penelope?”
He nods. “She’s good at keeping you on your toes and calling you on your bullshit.”
Wow. Don’t hold back, Scott. Tell me how you really feel.
He chuckles. “Sorry. Too much time around Athena and the guys, I guess. Seems broken filters are contagious. Penelope’s worried about you.”
When I turn to face him, he shrugs. “Women talk.”
Damn book clubs have a lot to answer for.
“Unlike some of the guys downstairs who want to give you a wide berth, she misses you. If you really like her—we both know that’s an understatement—send her a text, Tate. Make things right with her.”
“Missing her protein smoothies?”
He nods. “And your mom’s cooking. But none of that compares to how much we miss you.”
“Me?” It’s hard to snort when half your face is fucked up but somehow it works. “I’m nothing special.” The words taste tart in my mouth.
“Fuck off with that bullshit. Is that what you really think?” His gaze is hot on my skin as I avoid looking at him.
I shrug. He nudges my knee with his.
“Of course you’re fucking special. Do you know how many people would kill to be where you are? Playing college hockey, scouted for the NHL? And in your own right, too. You earned this spot. Your dad didn’t pull strings or throw money at it until they let you in.”
I stay silent. If what he was saying was true, surely the team would suffer without me on the ice with them.
“Tate.” His tone draws my attention to his face. “What’s this really about?”
I shake my head. If I don’t say the words out loud he won’t think I’m being childish and petulant.
“Out with it.” He’s not backing down.
We sit in stubborn silence for a long moment before I sigh. “The team isn’t suffering without me on the ice.” It sounds so fucking stupid when I say it out loud, which is confirmed by my friend, my teammate laughing at me.
“Fuck off.” I shove his leg with mine.
“Is that what you think? You got hurt and things moved on without you?”
“You’ve been winning game after game.” I toe at the carpet next to my foot.
He shakes his head. “At what cost? We’ve had to rejig the lines, people are pulling extra shifts, Ares was under so much pressure he pulled his ball sack. You know better than most of us, you can’t look at a score line at the end of the game and make assumptions about how we ended up there.”
Okay, his rationale is making me feel like even more of a dumbass.
“You’re re-writing the narrative the way you want it to be. You want to think you’re superfluous so you don’t have to bust your ass to get back on the ice. That’s bullshit. We need you back, deep down I think you know that.”
Fuck. Bourne was right when he said contact sports have a way of forming true bonds between players who have been through the same shit together.
These guys really are my found family.
“You know I’m right. Text your mom—or don’t, she’ll land on our doorstep with more food because she’s worried about you. Text Penelope. And lean on us, Tate. We’ve got your back. Just like we had Raffi’s back. Just like we’ve had Ares’s back. Just like we’ll have the back of whoever needs us next. Because unfortunately, it’s the risk of the job.”
My gut sinks because he’s not wrong. We’re never too far from the next injury. No matter what we eat, drink, how much we sleep or work out, we’re always just one bad rebound, one freak accident, or one wrong-place-wrong-time away from being right where I am now.
On the bench.
“Depressing as fuck, right?”
“Yeah. Why do we do this again, Scott?”
“Because we love the game, Tate.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and when I slide it out, Penelope’s name is on the screen.
“You should talk to her.” He pulls himself up before reaching back to help me to my feet, too.
He’s right. I should.