Chapter 1
ONE
tate
TWO YEARS LATER
The puck slides through my pads like I’m not even fucking here.
With a roar, Colorado’s center throws his hands up in victory. Two seconds left on the clock. Two goddamn seconds, and I let in the softest goal of my career.
I drop to one knee on the ice, pressing my gloved hand against my helmet. The plastic does nothing to block out the boos raining down from the Oakland fans. They paid good money to watch us beat Colorado, not to see me hand them a win on a silver platter.
“Fucking hell, Barnes,” a fan yells as I skate past, my head down.
I can’t even blame him. That shot should have been routine. A weak wrist shot from the slot that I’ve stopped a thousand times before. Instead, I froze like a goddamn rookie in his first NHL game.
Our hopes of overtaking Vegas for the division lead are crushed. By my hand. I drag myself to center ice, avoiding eye contact with my teammates as they line up for the post-game handshakes.
Masterson skates up next to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie tastes like shit on my tongue. “Just missed it.”
“Happens to everyone.”
But it’s been happening to me a lot lately. Three goals in five games that should have been easy saves. My call with Rex still loops through my head, the words “management concerns” and “performance consistency” stuck on repeat.
The handshake line moves like a funeral procession. Colorado’s players offer the usual “good game” bullshit, but I can see the satisfaction in their eyes. They know they didn’t earn this win. I gave it to them.
By the time I reach the tunnel, my legs feel like concrete. The guys head toward the locker room but I hang back, not wanting to talk to anyone. I don’t even want to meet their eyes.
Reporters wait outside the locker room, of course. Vultures with cameras and microphones, ready to pick apart every mistake.
“Tate, can you walk us through that final goal?”
“Any thoughts on the save percentage nosedive this season?”
I shoot the guy a glare that can melt ice.
“Is there added pressure playing at home?”
I swallow the expletives lodged in my throat and push through them without a word, my blade guards thumping against the concrete floor. Let Coach Enver deal with their questions. He’s the one getting paid to make excuses for my failures.
The locker room is quiet when I walk in. Most of the guys are already out of their gear, going through the motions of their post-game routines. Nobody looks at me directly, but their frustration is like a crushing weight.
I collapse onto the bench in front of my locker, not bothering to start unlacing my skates. My hands tremble, and I can’t tell if it’s from adrenaline or nerves.
“Hey.”
I look up to find Carter standing in front of me, water bottle in hand. Our captain has perfected the art of leadership through crisis, and right now I’m definitely a crisis.
“That wasn’t on you alone,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Defense broke down on that play.”
“Thanks, but we both know you’re bullshitting me.” I finally start working on my skate laces to avoid his stare. “That shot was straight at me. I should have had it.”
“Should have, could have.” Carter shrugs. “The game’s over. What matters is how we bounce back. You know that.”
Easy for him to say. Carter’s never had a season where everything he touches turns to shit. He’s the kind of consistent player that management builds a team around.
The kind of player I used to be.
“Barnes!” Coach Enver’s voice cuts across the locker room. “My office. Five minutes.”
The conversations around us die a quick death. Getting called to the coach’s office after a game like this is never good news. I nod, because I don’t trust my voice, and Carter nods before walking away.
Five minutes to mentally prepare for whatever ass-chewing awaits me. I pull off my helmet and run a hand through my sweaty hair, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake.
My phone buzzes in my equipment bag. I dig around for it and pull it out.
A text from my mom lights up the screen.
She probably wants to make sure I’m okay after shitting the bed tonight.
My family never misses a chance to check in, which would be comforting if I wasn’t trapped in the worst stretch of my career.
I ignore the message.
“You good?” Cam Foster appears next to me, pulling his jersey over his head.
“Define good.”
Cam’s only been with the Raptors for one season, but he’s got this annoying ability to read people’s moods. “Rough stretch. But you’ll bounce back.”
Will I? The confidence that carried me through juniors and into the NHL feels like it’s evaporating, one missed save at a time.
“I know you’re having a hard time.” Cam sits on the bench beside me. “You handle it better than most, though. Don’t let shit get stuck in your head. You’re better than that.”
I want to believe him, but the evidence suggests otherwise. The goals I’m letting in, the way my teammates have to work twice as hard to cover for my mistakes, the increasingly concerned looks from Coach Enver during practices.
“I should head to the office,” I say, finally pulling off my skates.
“Want me to wait?”
“Nah. This is my mess to deal with.”
Cam nods and heads toward the showers. The locker room is emptying out now, guys ready to put this loss behind them and move on to the next game. I strip out of my gear mechanically, each piece of equipment feeling heavier than usual. Or maybe that’s just my mood.
The walk to Coach Enver’s office feels like a death march. The lower level of the arena is dim after games. Long shadows loom, casting an ominous look to the tunnel. I can hear the chatter of reporters still hanging around, probably hoping to catch someone willing to throw me under the bus.
I knock on the metal office door, the sound echoing in the empty hallway.
“Come in.”
Coach Enver sits behind his desk, still in his suit, his tie loosened. His expression is unreadable, which somehow makes this worse than if he’d looked pissed off.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the chair across from his desk.
I drop into the uncomfortable metal chair. Silence hangs between us, interrupted only by the hum of the arena’s ventilation system.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he finally asks, clasping his hands together.
“Bad read on the shot. I fucked up.”
“That’s the third ‘I’ve fucked up’ in five games.” Enver leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “I’ve watched you play for four years, Barnes. You don’t usually miss routine saves.”
My throat tightens. “Maybe I’m not as good as everyone thought.”
“Horseshit.” I flinch at his tone. “You’ve got the talent. The question is whether you’ve got the head for it right now.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning something’s eating at you, and it’s affecting your game. Your save percentage is down three points from last season. You’re hesitating on shots you used to read in your sleep.”
He’s not wrong. Everything that used to come naturally now feels forced, like I’m thinking too much instead of reacting.
“I can fix it,” I say, bouncing my knee.
“I’m sure you can. But I don’t have the luxury of waiting around for you to figure it out on your own.” Enver stands up, walking around to lean against the front of his desk. “I’m bringing in some help.”
My stomach drops into my sneakers. “Help?”
“Goalie coach. A guy with experience working with players who’ve hit rough patches in their careers.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“You need someone who can get inside your head and figure out what’s broken.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “His name is Zane Christensen. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
The name doesn’t ring any bells, which is probably a good thing. The last thing I need is some washed-up former player trying to relive his glory days through my career.
“What’s his background?”
“Played professionally for several years before moving into coaching. He comes highly recommended.” Enver moves back toward his chair. “And before you ask, this isn’t a reflection on your long-term future with the team. It’s an investment in getting you back to where you belong.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I believe him. In professional sports, “getting help” is often code for “last chance before we cut our losses.”
“Meeting tomorrow at ten. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, sir.”
I start to stand, but he holds up a hand.
“Barnes? I know this feels like failure, but it’s not. Even the best players need tune-ups sometimes. The smart ones accept help when it’s offered.”
“Right.”
I leave his office, shoulders slumped, feeling worse than when I went in. The hallway seems longer on the way back, my footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. By the time I reach the locker room, it’s mostly empty except for a few guys finishing up their showers.
I grab my bag and head for the exit, not in the mood for any more well-meaning teammate conversations. The VIP parking garage is nearly deserted, just a few cars scattered under the fluorescent lights.
My phone buzzes again as I unlock my car. It’s a text from Rex asking me to call him tomorrow. Because apparently this day can still get worse.
Maybe Enver has already contacted him. Maybe this really is the beginning of the end.
I toss my bag in the backseat and slide behind the wheel, but I don’t start the engine. Instead, I sit in the silence, trying to work through everything that just happened.
A goalie coach. Like I’m some clueless rookie who doesn’t know how to protect his spot.
The worst part is, maybe I do need help. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself about being able to fix this on my own. The thought makes my chest ache with something that feels dangerously close to panic.
I finally start the car and pull out of the garage. City lights blur past as I drive toward my house. Tomorrow I’ll meet this fucking Zane Christensen and pretend to be grateful to stay in Enver’s good graces.
Tonight, I just want to forget this whole fucking day ever happened.
But as I sit at a red light, watching late-night traffic zoom past me, I can’t shake the feeling that everything is about to change.
And I’m not sure I’m ready for it.