Chapter 9
NINE
tate
I didn’t sleep last night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I kept hearing my own voice saying the words I almost let slip out.
Now I can’t even stop a fucking beach ball without thinking about...
About what? About his hands on my skin? About the way he made me feel things I’d never felt before? About how he opened a door I’ve been trying to slam shut for two years?
Christ. I almost told him everything. Almost admitted that he’s been living rent free in my head since Vegas, that every time I see him behind the bench I think about that night and what it felt like to finally understand who I really am.
The humiliation burns through my chest like acid.
At some point around three in the morning, I gave up pretending to sleep and just watched him. He sleeps on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, his breathing deep and even. His hair falls across his forehead the same way it did that night two years ago.
He looks younger when he’s sleeping. Less guarded.
Which makes me hate myself even more for still wanting him.
The shower turns on in the bathroom, jarring me. Zane’s up. Time to get my shit together and get out of here before I say something else I’ll regret.
I roll out of bed and throw my clothes into my bag, not bothering to fold anything. I just stuff it all in and zip it up. My hands shake as I pack, adrenaline making my movements jerky.
The bathroom door opens just as I reach for the strap of my gear bag.
Fuck.
Zane walks out in a cloud of steam with a towel wrapped around his waist, water still beading on his broad shoulders. His dark hair is slicked back, his ice blue eyes locking with mine. His knowing gaze and tense jaw tell me he understands exactly what I’m doing and why.
Neither of us speaks for a long moment.
“Morning,” he says finally.
“Yeah.” I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “I’m heading down for breakfast.”
“About last night... ” He pauses and pushes back his hair when it falls over his eyes.
“What about it?” I snap.
“You were going to say something. About what you think about when you’re in the net.”
Fuck. Of course he caught that. Of course he’s going to push for more.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“Why?” I turn to face him, anger flaring. “So you can add it to your collection? Another weakness to exploit?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“No? Then what is it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re fishing for information you have no right to have.”
His expression hardens. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Help me? You want to help me? Then stay the fuck away from me. Stop looking at me like you care. Stop pretending that night meant something to you when we both know it didn’t.”
“You don’t know what that night meant to me.”
I can’t stop my eyes from drinking in his body…the ink across his chest, the bronze skin still damp from the shower. When I raise my eyes to his, I see something raw in his expression. Something that looks like pain. It flickers away as quickly as it appeared, but I definitely saw it. Felt it, too.
Then I remember that he’s a liar. That he knew who I was, used me, and disappeared without a word.
“You’re right,” I say, hoisting my bag over my shoulder. “I don’t know. And I don’t want to know.”
I head for the door, but his voice stops me.
“Tate.”
I don’t turn around. “What?”
“For what it’s worth... that night was real for me, too.”
The honesty in his voice almost makes me turn around and demand the truth about why he left. It almost makes me forget that trusting him once already broke me.
Almost.
“Doesn’t matter now,” I say, and walk out without looking back.
But as the door closes behind me, I can’t shake the feeling that I just walked away from something I might never get back.
I board the bus with the rest of the team, pasting a fake ass smile on my face for Liam Parker.
He glows like a goddamn candle. And nobody is gonna ever say I’m not a supportive teammate.
The guys make idle conversation, talking about dinner, girls they met at the bar, how one of them wanted Colby to sign her tits.
It’s a helpful distraction. And unfortunately, a temporary one.
The practice skate is a nightmare.
I go through the motions, but my head’s not in it. I can’t focus on anything except the memory of last night, the way Zane looked at me when I almost spilled my guts about what he does to me.
Parker, meanwhile, looks like a kid on Christmas morning. He’s dialed in, sharp, making saves in practice that would make any coach proud. The team’s rallying around him, giving him easier shots to build his confidence.
“Looking good, Parker,” Carter calls out after a clean glove save.
“Thanks, Cap.” Parker’s grin could power the fucking arena. I grit my teeth to prevent the grimace from commanding my expression.
I grab a bottle of water, trying to ignore the way my stomach twists as I watch my replacement succeed where I’ve been failing.
“You see the highlights from last night’s Sharks game?” Masterson walks over and grabs a bottle of water from the cooler. “Brutal. Three goals in the first period.”
“Yeah, it was brutal.” I welcome the normal hockey talk. “Their defense looked lost out there.”
“Makes you appreciate what we’ve got here.” He glances toward where Carter’s directing a drill. “Speaking of which, you think Logan’s gonna propose to Cam soon?”
The casual gossip feels normal. Safe. “Why? Have you heard something?”
“I don’t know. He’s been talking about marriage a lot lately. I figured you’d have heard something through the grapevine since your brother’s dating Logan’s sister.” Masterson grins. “Think they’re finally gonna make it official?”
“I haven’t heard, but it’d be about time.” And I mean it. Cam and Logan deserve their happiness, even if watching them together sometimes makes my chest ache with envy.
“What about you?” He takes a long gulp of water. “You still talking to that brunette from the charity gala?”
“Nah, that didn’t go anywhere.” I made that shit up to throw the guys off. There was no brunette. There hasn’t been anyone since Amanda, and being in that situationship should’ve won me an Oscar.
Masterson shrugs. “Eh, there are plenty of fish in the sea, right?”
“Right.”
The rest of practice passes in a blur. Parker looks solid, the team is confident in their goalie, and I feel like a spectator at my own career funeral.
When we take the ice for the game a couple of hours later, things get worse.
For me, at least.
I suit up in my gear, even though I won’t see the ice unless Parker gets injured. The familiar routine of taping my stick and adjusting my pads feels like putting on a costume for a play I’m not in.
The arena is packed. Phoenix fans are in rare form and loud as hell, anxious to see if their Scorpions can knock off a Western Conference contender. The energy is electric, the kind that usually gets my blood pumping.
Tonight, it just makes me feel empty.
I sit on the bench next to Coach Enver, watching Parker take his warm-up laps. He looks calm, focused. Everything a starting goalie should be.
Everything I used to be.
“He’s ready,” Enver says, more to himself than to me.
The game starts, and I watch from the bench as Parker settles into the net. The first shot comes five minutes in, a weak wrist shot from the point. Parker swallows it, no rebound.
The bench erupts.
“Way to go, Parker!” Jaren yells.
The second shot comes midway through the first period. A two-on-one that should be routine for any NHL goalie. Parker reads it perfectly, slides across his crease, and makes the save look easy.
Another cheer from the bench. And my heart sinks lower.
By the end of the first period, Phoenix had put twelve shots on net. Parker’s stopped them all. Clean saves, good positioning, textbook goaltending.
Everything I haven’t been doing lately.
“Kid’s got ice in his veins,” Cam says during the intermission.
“Natural feel for the position,” Carter says, downing a bottle of water.
I nod and pretend to agree, but inside I’m crumbling. Watching your replacement succeed is torture enough. Listening to your teammates praise him while you sit there useless is a special kind of hell.
The second period is more of the same. Parker stops everything Phoenix throws at him. A power play save that has the Raptors on their feet. A breakaway that he handles like he’s been starting in the NHL for years.
Meanwhile, I sit on the bench and wonder if this is what the end of a career feels like. Not a dramatic injury or a trade. Just... fading into the background while someone better takes your place.
In the third period, Phoenix pulls their goalie with two minutes left, down by one. Six attackers against five defenders and Parker in net. The arena’s on its feet, the noise deafening.
Phoenix takes a shot from the point. Parker kicks it away.
Then there’s a rebound in front. He covers it.
With fifteen seconds left, Parker stands tall in his net, cool as a fucking cucumber while chaos rages around him.
The final buzzer sounds. Oakland wins three to one. It’s Parker’s first NHL victory, a near-shutout performance that has the entire team mobbing him on the ice.
I should congratulate him. But I can’t make myself move. So I watch from the bench as my teammates lift him up, slapping his mask. Parker’s laughing, his face bright with joy.
That’s what it looks like when everything goes right. When a goalie plays the way he’s supposed to play.
When he’s not carrying around baggage that poisons everything he touches.
“Hell of a game,” Enver says as we head toward the tunnel. “I think Parker just earned himself another start.”
The words hit like a cinderblock to the chest, but I force myself to nod. “He played great.”
Because he did. I can’t even be mad about it.
The truth is, I’m happy for the kid. Not happy about losing my spot, but happy that he finally got a chance to show the world what he can do.
I silence the voice that whispers ‘fluke’ in my mind because I’m better than that.
Parker’s getting the full VIP treatment from the veteran guys on the flight home.
They tell stories and make jokes…the kind of celebration that comes after your first NHL win.
I try to tune it out, but it’s impossible.
Every laugh, every congratulations, every mention of how well he played is another reminder of how far I’ve fallen.
My phone has buzzed constantly since the game ended. Texts from Mark, my parents, friends wanting to know what’s going on. The media’s already speculating about whether Parker’s performance means I’m losing my starting job permanently.
I stare out the window at the lights below, trying not to think about what happens next.
Maybe Enver’s gonna trade me before my value drops any lower, and I’ll end up as a backup somewhere else, or worse, out of the league.
“You good?” Cam slides into the empty seat next to me.
“Define good.” I manage a weak smile. “Parker looked solid out there.”
“Kid’s got potential. Reminds me of you when you first started - all instinct, no fear.”
Cam pulls out his phone and shows me a picture. “Look at this. Logan’s teaching Ethan to skate. The kid’s fearless.”
I look at the photo of Logan crouched on the ice next to Tessa’s eight-year-old son, both of them grinning. “He’s getting big. What is he now, second grade?”
“Yeah, and obsessed with hockey thanks to Logan spoiling him. Wants to be a goalie like his ‘Uncle Tate.’” Cam grins. “You should come by this weekend. Ethan keeps asking when you’re gonna teach him your glove save. Kid’s got decent form for an eight-year-old.”
The invitation feels natural, the way things have been since Cam and Logan got together and I started spending more time with them and Ethan because of Mark’s relationship with Tessa. Real family stuff instead of just team dinners and events.
“That’d be cool,” I say. And I mean it. “Maybe we can work on his positioning too. Kid drops too low on his butterfly.”
“Listen to you, already coaching.” Cam laughs. “Logan says you’re a natural with him. Makes sense, though. You’re good with kids.”
There’s something comfortable about being around Ethan. He doesn’t care about my save percentage or my contract situation. Just wants to learn hockey and hang out with the guys Logan used to play with.
“He’s easy to coach. He listens better than some of our rookies.”
“Hey, hey,” Steve Scott, one of the rookies, looks at me with a mock glare. “Easy, there.”
I chuckle and it feels good for once. Not forced. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, Scott.”
The plane starts its descent into Oakland, and I can see the city lights spreading out below us. Home. Where I’ll have to face my family and the media, answering questions about Parker’s performance and my own struggles.
Where I’ll have to keep pretending.
Where I’ll have to continue working with Zane every day, fighting feelings I can’t control.
Tomorrow there’s a team event at Play It Forward, a charity organization for underprivileged kids that Jack Larson got us involved with a while back.
He used to date Sam Hartley, golden boy NFL player on the Oakland Saints, and Sam’s been heavily involved with some other prominent celebrity athletes.
We occasionally do events there for the kids.
I need to get my head straight tonight. The event means more time with Zane. More opportunities to pretend we’re just coach and player.
The plane touches down, and reality crashes back down with it. My phone buzzes with a text from Mark as we taxi on the runway.
The news is saying Parker might be the new starter. You okay?
I stare at the message. Another conversation I’m not ready to have.
The overhead lights come on, and players start gathering their bags. Parker’s still riding high on his win, talking excitedly with Carter about the saves he made.
I close my eyes and imagine a world where that’s still me. Where I’m the one celebrating, where I’m the one the team can count on.
But that world feels further away than ever.
Maybe it’s time to accept that it might never come back.