Chapter 5
FIVE
tate
My entire life is spiraling out of control and the worst decision of my life has a goddamn front-row seat to watch the carnage.
The hot water from the shower isn’t washing away the humiliation of the worst practice of my professional career.
I stand under the scorching spray longer than necessary, letting the heat beat against my shoulders. I don’t want to get caught talking to anyone. Not when my game just unraveled in front of everyone like a cheap rug. I just want to wallow. Alone.
Clutching the sides of my head, I try to block out the words I said to Zane. They keep echoing in my head, taunting me.
I can’t do it. Not with you.
Dammit. It was raw honesty that I should have kept buried. Professional suicide delivered in those fucking words.
But it’s the truth. I thought I could compartmentalize, but I was wrong, just like I’ve been wrong about everything else lately.
I turn off the water, grab a towel, and sling it around my waist. The locker room is quiet. Maybe I can get dressed and get the hell out of here without having to explain myself to anyone.
When I reach my stall, my phone buzzes with a text from Mark.
Mom called. She’s worried about you. Says you sounded stressed when she talked to you last week.
I stare at the screen, something squeezing my lungs tight. Of course my mom’s worried. Mothers have radar for when their kids are struggling, even when those kids are twenty-six-year-old professional athletes who should have their shit together.
I type a quick response.
Tell her I’m fine.
My phone rings before I can stuff it back into my bag. Mark’s name flashes on the screen, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I should let it go to voicemail and call him later. But I know my brother and he won’t leave me alone until he finally gets to me.
I take a breath and stab the Accept button. “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Don’t ‘hey’ me. Mom says you sound like hell, and you send me that text? What’s going on? Because I know you’re not fine.”
I press my palm against my forehead. “Nothing’s going on. Just hockey stuff.”
“What kind of hockey stuff?”
I pause, trying to figure out how much I can tell him without revealing anything real. “New goalie coach. We’re working through some adjustments to my game.”
“And?”
“And it’s been rough. My game’s been off lately.”
That’s true, at least. My game has been off. What I can’t tell him is why.
“Tate.” Mark’s voice goes from interrogator to concerned older brother. “You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever’s going on.”
The offer hangs like a lifeline I’m too scared to grab. Mark’s always been my closest confidant, the one person who knows me better than anyone. If I could tell anyone the truth about who I am and what I’m struggling with, it would be him.
But I don’t want to unload on him. He’s happy with Tessa. Adores her kid. They’re talking about moving in together, maybe getting engaged. He doesn’t need to be burdened by my shit. I’m a big boy. I can handle it by myself.
“Yep, I know. And I appreciate it.”
“Okay. I’m here anytime.”
“Thanks.”
I shut him down even though I can tell he wants to ask more questions.
Tessa’s brother is Logan Shaw, a former teammate.
He and Cam have been together for over a year now.
The fact that they’re gay has never come up as a point of contention with my parents.
Logically, I know they'd probably be fine. But I'm not fine. I let myself be real once, in Vegas, and Zane walked out of my life. He rejected me after I’d shown him a part of myself I’ve always kept hidden from the world.
Coming out means confidently accepting who I am, and I just don’t think I’m there yet.
We hang up, and I’m alone again, drowning in my lies and secrets.
I walk to the parking garage, my gear bag heavy on my shoulder. The facility is mostly empty now, just a few staff members going about their business.
I’m almost to my car when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Barnes.”
I turn to find Coach Enver walking toward me, his expression unreadable in the dim garage lighting. His lips are pulled into a tight line. My stomach drops. This doesn’t look good.
“Coach.”
“Walk with me.” He nods without slowing down.
It’s not a request. I follow him toward his car, my mind racing through possible explanations for what just happened on the ice.
“That was quite a performance out there,” he says.
“Yes, sir. I know.”
He stops and turns to face me. “Barnes, I’ve seen rough. That wasn’t rough. That was a goalie having a complete breakdown in front of his teammates.”
He’s not wrong, but fuck.
“I’m working through things with Coach Christensen... ”
“Doesn’t seem like it. What I saw today was a player who can’t stand to be on the same ice as his coach.”
Fuck. If Coach Enver’s picking up on the tension between me and Zane too, there’s no hiding it anymore. Everyone sees it.
“We have different approaches to the position,” I say, falling back on the same lie I told my teammates.
“Different approaches.” Enver snorts. “Barnes, I’ve been coaching for twenty years. I know the difference between a player working through technical issues and a player who’s got personal shit affecting his game.”
My mouth goes dry. “Coach... ”
“So I’m going to ask you once, and I want a straight answer. Is there a problem between you and Christensen that I need to know about?”
This is it. The moment where I either come clean about the history between me and Zane or find a way to bullshit my way through another conversation.
And I’m tired of the lies. They’re crushing me.
I’m also running out of them. My game is crumbling, my teammates are worried, and my coach is losing faith in me.
Something has to give.
“There’s... ” I start, then stop, the words catching in my throat.
“There’s what?”
I sigh and square my shoulders. Coach has given me so many opportunities and believed in me for four years. But I still can’t tell him the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway.
“There’s some history,” I say finally, my pulse pounding in my throat. “Nothing professional. Just... personal stuff that’s making it hard to focus.”
“What kind of personal stuff?”
“The kind that doesn’t belong on the ice.”
Enver studies my face for a long minute. Christ, I wish I could read his thoughts.
Or then again, maybe I don’t.
“All right,” he says finally. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to figure out how to put your personal shit aside and work with Christensen. Because I can’t afford to have my starting goalie falling apart every time he sees his coach.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I mean it, Barnes. Either you find a way to make this work, or I start looking at other options.”
My stomach drops. Other options. Like Liam Parker, the backup goalie who’s been waiting for his chance to start. Like trade possibilities that could send me somewhere else. Like the end of my career in Oakland.
I nod. “I will, sir.”
“Good.” He starts walking toward his car again. “Figure it out, Barnes. Fast.”
He gets in and drives away, leaving me alone in the parking garage with the ultimatum tightening around my neck.
Figure it out or lose everything I’ve worked for.
The problem is, I have no idea how to figure anything out when the source of my problems hovers over me every day as a constant reminder of everything I’m trying not to think about.
I drop into the driver’s seat with a sigh. I stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror. The face staring back is someone I barely recognize - hollow-eyed, exhausted, defeated.
Four years ago, I was a rising star with unlimited potential. Now I’m sitting in a parking garage wondering if my career is over because I can’t stop thinking about a man who walked out on me without a word.
How the hell do I come back from that?