Chapter 4
FOUR
zane
My hands won’t stop shaking as I arrange my practice notes for the third time this morning.
Yesterday’s confrontation with Tate loops through my mind like a broken record.
His fury, the way he called me out for targeting him, the disgust burning in his eyes.
I’ve stared down syndicate enforcers who could snap my neck with their bare hands, but somehow one pissed-off goalie had me more rattled than any of them ever did.
The conference room still smells like the coffee Coach Enver was drinking when he grilled me about Tate yesterday. Now I’m supposed to get on the ice with Tate and pretend we can work together like nothing happened.
I check my phone again. Still no calls from Sunrise Manor. The silence should be a relief, but it’s not. When they don’t call, it means my father’s having one of his bad days. The kind where he doesn’t remember he has a son.
“Ready for this?” Coach Enver appears in the doorway, steam rising from his coffee mug.
“Of course.” I hand Enver a folder with my practice plans, my gut clenching. “Basic positioning work with Barnes, then team scrimmage.”
Enver glances at the papers, but I can tell his mind’s somewhere else. His jaw tenses and he taps the top of the folder.
After a long pause, he finally speaks. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two yesterday, but Barnes left here looking like he wanted to put someone through the boards.”
Fuck. So much for keeping things professional.
“First sessions can be intense,” I say, arranging my pens in a straight line. “Players don’t always like having their techniques questioned.”
“Barnes isn’t usually defensive about coaching. Kid’s been solid since he got here.” Enver sets down his coffee mug and a little bit sloshes over the rim. His thick eyebrows knit together and he stares me down. “I need you to level with me. Is there some kind of history between you two?”
Shit. For a split second, the truth dances on the tip of my tongue. I consider telling him everything. About Vegas, about the FBI, about how I’m the absolute worst person in the world to help Tate Barnes get his shit together.
But I can’t. So I lie instead.
“We’ve never worked together before. But sometimes personalities clash initially.”
“And if they don’t stop clashing?”
“They will. Barnes wants to win more than anything else. I got that from our conversation.”
I hope the competitor in him will override our personal history long enough for me to figure out how to unfuck this situation.
Enver doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “All right. But if this becomes a problem, I need to know. I can’t have my starting goalie distracted by coaching bullshit.”
“Understood.”
He leaves, and I’m alone with my shaking hands and the noose of too many lies tightening around my neck.
Twenty minutes later, I stand behind the bench watching players warm up on fresh ice. My chest aches as I take it all in. The sounds are familiar…skates carving through the smooth surface, pucks smacking off the boards, the low rumble of conversations between players.
A pang hits my chest as I scan the ice. I miss it.
Badly. But I made choices. Bad fucking choices, and I’m never going to get back what I lost. Deep down, I know I have to accept that and move on, but every time I step out, it all comes crashing back…
the anger, the fear, and all the regret that follows.
Carter van Kleef runs warm-ups, an obvious leader. He keeps glancing toward the net. Tate stretches in the crease, every movement controlled and precise. Too controlled. Like he’s trying to hold himself together because he knows what’s at stake if he unravels.
Masterson skates past the bench and slows down when he spots me watching.
“He’s been quiet this morning,” he says, nodding toward Tate. “More than usual. Everything go okay yesterday?”
“Just working through some technical adjustments.”
“Right.” Masterson’s eyes narrow. “He’s…ah…he’s been dealing with a lot of pressure lately. Family stuff, media attention. You might want to ease into things.”
The warning in his voice is unmistakable. Masterson’s clearly appointed himself Tate’s unofficial protector, and he’s telling me to back the fuck off. If only he knew that backing off isn’t an option.
“Got it,” I say.
He skates away, his heated gaze on me throughout warm-ups. He’s not the only one, either. Cam Foster keeps shooting glances between me and Tate. whispering to Van Kleef and Larson. I get weird looks from other guys, too. Guarded looks, looks that say don’t fuck around with our brother.
The team knows something’s wrong. They just don’t know what. And they’d run my ass out of here if they knew the truth.
“Barnes,” I call out when warm-ups end. “Let’s get to work.”
He skates over without a word, his face blank. But I can see the storm brewing under his calm, cool facade. The fury from yesterday is bubbling below the surface, ready to erupt.
And since I want to keep it contained, we start simple. Basic angle work that should be automatic for someone with four years in the league. I set up the first scenario and wait for him to show me his positioning.
“Forward coming down the left side,” I call out. “Show me your angle.”
He moves into position, but something’s off. His timing’s a half-beat slow, his stance conservative when it should be aggressive. Like he’s questioning every movement instead of trusting his instincts.
“Again,” I say after the third rep. “You’re hesitating.”
“Am I?”
The question comes out flat. But I can hear the edge underneath it.
“Yes. You’re reading it right, but you’re second-guessing yourself.”
“Maybe I have good reason to second-guess myself.”
He’s not talking about hockey, and we both know it.
I skate closer, dropping my voice so the other players can’t hear. “Whatever personal shit we have stays off the ice. This is about your career. Nothing else.”
“Right.” His dry laugh is hollow. “Because you care so much about my career.”
The sarcasm cuts deep, but I can see something else stirring beneath the sarcasm. Pain. The kind that comes from having your trust shattered when you’re at your most vulnerable.
“I care about getting you back to where you belong,” I say.
“Do you? Or is this just another job for you?”
Before I can answer, he skates away to reset. But the damage is done. There’s no professional understanding between us. Just a gaping wound I keep tearing open.
The tension is thick and toxic. The team scrimmage is a fucking disaster.
Tate lets in four goals that any decent beer league goalie should be able to stop in his sleep.
Soft shots from bad angles, routine saves that somehow slip past him like he’s not even there.
Each goal rattles him more, which makes the next save harder because now he’s overthinking it, and I have a front-row seat to the unraveling of a four-year veteran.
By the fourth goal, his teammates grouse and mutter. Carter calls for a water break and skates straight to the net for a quick word with Tate.
“Talk to me,” he says, loud enough for me to hear. “What’s going on out there?”
“Nothing’s going on.” But Tate’s voice is tight. “I’m just having an off day.”
“Four off days in a row?” Carter presses. “What the hell is happening, Tate? Are you having issues with the new coach? Enver wants to get you help. Hell, we all do. But if you’re not straight with us about the actual problem—”
“There’s no problem,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m fucking fine, Carter.”
I drop my eyes to my clipboard, keeping my face neutral as my ears strain to hear every word.
Cam joins the conversation.
“You know we’re here, right?” Cam says, clapping him on the back. “Whatever’s eating at you, we can help.”
“Nothing’s eating at me. Look, I know I’m not perfect, but who the fuck is?” I look up at the same moment Tate’s glare settles on me.
“It’s gonna get worse before it gets better,” Carter says. “Unless you face what’s really going on.”
Tate lets out a frustrated breath. “Jesus, guys. Can we just fucking play hockey?”
Carter and Cam exchange a look. They know their goalie’s drowning, but they don’t know how to throw him a lifeline if he refuses to grab it.
My stomach churns with guilt. These guys trust each other, support each other, and function like a well-oiled machine. And I’m the wrench that’s jamming up their gears and fucking with their operation.
The rest of practice becomes damage control. Carter adjusts the drills to give Tate easier saves. Masterson camps out in front of the net, providing extra coverage. Even the forwards start pulling their shots, nobody wanting to be responsible for breaking their goalie’s spirit.
But it’s too late. I’ve already done that.
When the final whistle blows, players skate to the bench like they’ve caught a glimpse of the rest of their season and it’s dismal as hell.
They don’t laugh. They don’t joke. I’m surrounded by the heavy silence of guys who don’t know how to fix what’s broken.
A few of them throw accusatory glances my way, like it’s my fault Tate is in a downward spiral.
Tate waits until everyone else is in the tunnel before he leaves the ice. He takes his time putting on his blade guards. When he stands, frustration and disappointment radiate from every inch of his body.
“That was... ” He starts to say, then stops, shaking his head.
“Rough,” I finish.
“Yeah. Rough.” He looks at me directly for the first time since the scrimmage started.
“Is this how it’s gonna be? Because if it is, maybe Coach should find someone else to fix whatever the hell’s wrong with me.
” He takes a few steps toward the tunnel, his back to me.
Then, “I can’t do it. I thought I could, but I can’t. Not with you.”
The defeat in his voice cuts deeper than any insult could. This isn’t the angry, defiant man from yesterday. This is someone who’s starting to doubt everything about himself, including his ability to do the one thing he’s been great at his entire life.
“Tate... ”
“Don’t.” He holds up a gloved hand. “Just... don’t. I need to get out of here.”
He stalks away before I can say anything else, leaving me alone behind the bench.
My phone buzzes. For a second, I hope it’s Morrison with news that might somehow make this clusterfuck better. Instead, it’s a text from Sunrise Manor.
Mr. Christensen, your father had a difficult night. He was asking for you quite a bit. Thought you should know. - Sarah
I stare at the screen until the words blur. He was asking for me. While I was here destroying someone else’s life, my father was confused and scared and wondering why his son had abandoned him.
My fingers shake as I type a response.
Thank you. Please tell him I love him.
It’s not enough. It’s never enough. But it’s all I can give without putting him in danger.
I’m supposed to protect the people I care about, but all I do is hurt them. Tate, my father, even the teammates trying to support a goalie whose problems they can’t understand.
Everyone would be better off if I’d never walked back into their lives.
But I’m here now, and I’ve got a job to do. The FBI needs intelligence. Coach Enver needs his goalie fixed. Morrison needs me to maintain cover long enough to build a case.
The only problem is that every day I spend trying to fulfill those obligations, I destroy a little more of the man I’m supposed to be helping.
And I’m beginning to think that’s a price I can’t afford to pay.