Chapter 3
THREE
tate
The words wind around my neck, choking me slowly. I stare at him for a long minute, waiting.
“I don’t have all fucking day,” I growl. “You have an answer or not?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. For someone who seemed so confident a minute ago, he’s suddenly at a loss for words.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I push past him and head toward the door, my gut twisting harder for each second I glare at him.
I’m fucking done with this conversation, this bullshit attempt to smooth things over to save face with Coach.
“I thought that night was real. I thought what happened was fucking real. Didn’t take me long to realize I was used. I was an idiot for trusting you.”
“You weren’t an idiot.”
I turn back to face him, barely containing the fury coiling in my chest. “Right. I was just easy.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter, like I haven’t spent two years trying to forget how his hands felt on my skin. “A young, confused hockey player sitting alone in a bar. I had prey written all over me and I was the last one to realize it.”
Something flickers across his face…anger, maybe, or frustration. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“From where I’m standing, it looks pretty fucking clear. You saw an opportunity, and you took it. I’m sure I wasn’t the first desperate kid you picked up, and I won’t be the last.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?” Fury burns in my veins. “Tell me about all these mysterious circumstances that forced you to fuck me and run.”
He runs a hand through his dark hair.
I clench my fists at my sides. I did the same thing that night. I can still feel the glossy strands sliding through my fingers.
And still, he doesn’t give me anything, which is answer enough.
“Yep. Thanks for confirming.” I head for the door again with a shake of my head.
“Tate, stop.”
“Stop what? Acting like it doesn’t bother me?” I pause with my hand on the door handle. “Trust me, it doesn’t. You know why? Because I learned something that night. I learned not to trust guys who seem too good to be true. No one is.”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” I ask, my eyes widening. “Who said anything about being hurt? You did me a favor. Taught me a valuable lesson about keeping my guard up.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious, his eyes trying damn hard to read what’s behind my gaze. Good. Let him wonder.
“The only thing that pisses me off,” I say, “is that now I have to see you every day and pretend you’re qualified to coach me.
Because let’s be real, who the fuck could believe anything you say?
Do you even have credentials? Besides knowing how to spot vulnerable players and take advantage of them? ”
“I played professionally for several years.”
“Where? Because I’ve never heard of you.”
Another flash of something across his face. Looks like pain.
Or guilt.
Interesting. Maybe he’s got skeletons. Good. I hope they fucking take his ass down one day when I’m around to enjoy the shitshow.
“Minor leagues mostly.”
“Right. And now you’re an expert on NHL goaltending.” I shake my head, another dry laugh slipping out. “This should be fun.”
I pull open the conference room door. “We both know why you’re really here.
Coach Enver thinks I need fixing, and you probably convinced him you’re the guy to do it.
I have no fucking clue why, but fine. Just remember that every time you step onto the ice, every time you say something to me, every time you judge or critique me, I’ll know who you really are… a fucking two-faced fraud.”
“We can make this work professionally.” His voice wavers.
“Of course we can. Because despite what you might think, I’m not some broken little boy who can’t handle seeing his one-night stand again.” I meet his eyes and hold his gaze long enough to make him look away. “I’m a four-year NHL veteran who’s going through a rough patch. It happens to everyone.”
“Your performance issues... ”
“Have nothing to do with you. My game’s been off for a few weeks because I’ve got other shit going on. Family pressure, contract negotiations, media attention. The usual crap that comes with this job.”
It’s not total bullshit. My parents want me to settle down. The spotlight on me is getting brighter. And yeah, watching my teammates in happy relationships while I’m faking it eats at me every day.
But Vegas is what cracked me open. Vegas made me realize what I’d been denying myself for years.
And then Zane vanished. No note, no explanation, nothing. Like what happened wasn't worth a goodbye. It’s hard to come out to the world when the one time you let yourself be real, the guy bolted.
Not that I’m telling him any of that.
“So whatever fantasy you have about being my savior,” I continue, “you can forget it. I don’t need saving, and I sure as hell don’t need you.”
“Then what do you need?”
The question catches me off guard. There’s something in his voice that sounds almost genuine, like he actually cares about my answer.
“To do my job without any distractions.” I step into the hallway. “Think you can manage that, Coach?”
I don’t wait for his response before I stalk out of the room.
The hallway feels longer than usual during the walk back to the locker room, but my legs are steady beneath me.
Steady and strong, like they should be. Not buckling over some one night stand I had with a fake ass, washed-up minor leaguer.
I’m not some heartbroken kid pining after a guy who used me. I’m a professional athlete dealing with the normal pressures that come with this life. If those pressures are finally catching up with me, that’s between me and my therapist.
Well, if I had a therapist. Which I don’t, because Barnes men don’t need therapy. We just work harder until the problems go away.
“Tate?”
Masterson jogs over to me, already half-dressed in his practice gear. His expression carries the concern of someone who’s been watching me struggle but doesn’t know how the hell to help when I keep shutting down his questions.
“You good? You were in there a while.”
“Yeah, just going over some technical stuff with the new guy.” I force a casual tone. “Getting a feel for his coaching style.”
“And?”
“And he seems like every other coach I’ve ever had. Lots of opinions about what I’m doing wrong.”
Masterson frowns. “Your game’s been solid for four years. What does he think needs fixing?”
“Apparently my positioning. My reads. My mental approach.” I shrug. “The usual shit coaches obsess over when they need to justify their paychecks.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me.”
“Probably is. But Coach Enver thinks I need help, so I’ll play along.”
We reach the locker room, and I’m grateful for the noise and distraction of my teammates getting ready for practice. Normal sounds of a normal day, exactly what I need right now.
“You sure you’re okay?” Masterson asks as I sit down at my stall. “Because you seem... I don’t know. Different.”
Different. That’s one way to put it.
“Just focused,” I say, pulling my practice jersey over my head. “Got a lot on my mind lately.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
For a split second, I consider it. Masterson’s been like a brother to me since I joined this team. If anyone would understand the pressure I’m under, it would be him.
But I’ve avoided talking to him about any of it because I’m not sure how to tell my teammate that I’m struggling because I want to stop lying to everyone, but the thought of coming out petrifies me?
I mean, how can I say that watching Carter and Jack be happy together makes me jealous in ways I can’t even admit to myself?
“Nah, man. Just the usual stuff. Family wanting me to settle down, the media asking about my personal life. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I get that. My mom’s been on me about grandkids lately, too.”
We share a knowing look. The pressure to be the perfect son, the perfect athlete, the perfect role model. It’s something every guy in this room understands.
What they don’t understand is the additional pressure of lying about who you are every single day of your life.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mark.
Mom called. She’s asking if you’re bringing someone to the BBQ. What should I tell her?
I stare at the message for a long moment. Mark’s been running interference with our parents for months, deflecting their questions about my love life without even knowing why I need the protection. I shoot off a quick response.
Just tell her I’m too busy with the season. Haven’t been dating much.
It’s easier than explaining that I can’t bring home a nice girl because I don’t want a nice girl. That I want something our parents would never understand, something that would disappoint them in ways I can’t even quantify.
“Barnes!”
I look up to find Coach Enver standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
“My office. Now.”
Christ. Not again.
My stomach tightens, but I keep my face neutral and nod. Getting called to the coach’s office after a conversation with the new hire is probably not a good sign.
I follow him down the hallway, my sneakers thumping against the concrete floor. His office feels smaller than usual when he closes the door behind us. The walls close in once we’re inside, my lungs working hard to pull in air.
“Sit.”
I drop into the chair across from his desk, the same uncomfortable piece of furniture where my world started shifting two days ago.
“Christensen filled me in on your conversation,” Enver begins, leaning back in his chair, hands folded over his belly. “Says you two have a good understanding of what needs to be worked on.”
Understanding. That’s one way to put it.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Because I need this partnership to succeed, Barnes. Your inconsistency is becoming a team issue.”
“I know, Coach. I’m working on it.”
“I hope so, because you’ve been distracted for weeks. Missing reads you used to make in your sleep, hesitating on routine saves.”
He’s not wrong. Ever since the media started asking more personal questions, ever since my parents ramped up the pressure about grandchildren, ever since Mark started getting serious with Tessa and I realized how lonely I actually am, my focus has been shit.
But I can’t tell him any of that.
“Just a rough patch,” I say instead, repeating what I told Zane. “Every goalie goes through them.”
“Not four-year veterans. Not guys I’m counting on to anchor this team through a playoff run.”
His expectations settle on my shoulders like a lead blanket. This is what I’ve wanted since I was twelve years old, to be the guy a team depends on. Now that I’m that guy, I’m fucking it up because I can’t get my personal life sorted out.
“I won’t let the team down, Coach.”
“Prove it. Tomorrow’s practice, I want to see the Tate Barnes who’s been our backbone for four years. Not this distracted version who’s been showing up lately.”
“You will.”
He studies my face for a long minute. “Whatever’s going on in your head, figure it out. Fast. This team is counting on you.”
“Yes, sir.”
I stand up and head for the door, but his voice stops me before I can leave.
“And Barnes? Work with Christensen. I don’t care if you like his methods or not. He’s here to help you get back to where you belong. Where I know you should be.”
“Got it.”
But as I walk back toward the locker room, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to work with someone who represents everything I’ve been trying to bury for two years.
The thing is, Coach Enver is right. I have been distracted. But it’s not because of one night in Vegas - it’s because of everything that night represented. Everything it made me realize about myself that I’m still too scared to face.
And now the guy who opened that door is back looking so much fucking hotter than I remember, pretending to be qualified to fix my problems.
The irony would be funny if it weren’t so fucking complicated.
But I’m not going to let him see any of that. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his presence has any effect on me.
Because I’m not some broken kid who needs saving. I’m a professional athlete with a job to do.
And I’ll be damned if I let anyone, especially him, think otherwise.