Chapter 10
TEN
zane
“Zane,” a familiar voice calls out.
I turn in the mass chaos that’s erupted at Play It Forward for our team event and spot Carter and Jack Larson talking to two other guys. My eyes widen when they turn around. Sam Hartley from the Oakland Saints and his fiancé, Brixton Scott, lead singer for Sin City.
Carter waves me over and makes the introductions.
“Thanks for coming,” Sam says. “It means so much to the kids.”
I look around at the impressive facility. “This place is amazing. You should be proud of what you’ve done for the community.”
“Well, it was actually Jase Maxwell and Lucas Bentley’s passion project to start.
But when they brought the idea out here from where they play in Cincinnati, we picked it up fast. Play It Forward has been doing this for years.
Bringing professional athletes into underserved communities, providing equipment and coaching to kids who’d never otherwise get the chance.
It’s the kind of program that reminds you why sports matter beyond statistics and contracts,” Sam says, a smile stretching across his face.
“I used to volunteer at a place like this when I was growing up. I’m happy to be part of it.” NFL stars, NHL stars, rock stars. Jesus, there’s a lot of A-list power behind this place.
Sam nods. “Carter tells us that you’re new to the coaching staff. How’s that going?”
“It’s still new. I’m just trying to get to know the players, get a feel for the way the team works. But it’s…good.”
“It’s always hard being a new coach and trying to figure out the vibe. But you’ll get there.” Sam smiles.
“Who’d you play for?” Brixton asks. “You were pro, yeah?”
I nod. “Never made it to the NHL but yeah, I played in the minors. An injury took me out of the game and I’ve been coaching ever since.”
The guys nod but Carter watches me carefully. I shift under his stare. He hasn’t cornered me about Tate but he’s perceptive. And I don’t like when people are too perceptive. It makes things a hell of a lot riskier for me.
“I hope you have fun,” Sam says. “As you can see, there are plenty of kids excited to play and learn.”
They go their separate ways and I stand in the doorway of the main gymnasium, watching Oakland Raptors players scattered across the space with dozens of kids aged six to sixteen.
The energy is infectious. Kids shriek with laughter as they try to maneuver oversized hockey sticks, pucks slide across the polished floor, players explain basic techniques.
A smile lifts my lips as I wander through the crowd.
My dad used to bring me to community centers in Detroit every other Saturday, back when he was still working two jobs to keep us fed after Mom died.
“Hockey gave us opportunities,” he’d say, lacing up skates for kids whose families couldn’t afford proper equipment. “Time to pay it forward.”
My dad never made it past high school hockey, but he understood the game better than most college coaches.
He could read a play developing before it happened, knew exactly what adjustment to make when a kid was struggling with technique.
I learned more about goaltending watching him work with those Detroit kids than I did from any of my own coaches.
He’d be proud of this event, happy to hear that I’m working with kids again. Not that I can tell him about it, since any contact would put him at risk. And even if I did manage to see him, would he even remember?
My phone buzzes, and I grab it, letting out a breath when I see it’s a spam text about car warranties.
Morrison’s latest text still has me on edge.
He’s given me forty-eight hours to figure out which Oakland players might be vulnerable to syndicate pressure, specifically Tate. To catalog their weaknesses, their pressure points, their potential breaking points.
To compile a shopping list for these criminals.
I walk over to a young kid with two missing front teeth and an Oakland jersey two sizes too big.
“Hey, bud. My name is Coach Christensen. What’s your name?”
“It’s Alex,” he says. “Can you show me how to do that save the goalie did last night?”
Parker’s glove save from the second period. The one that had the entire arena on its feet while I watched from the bench, knowing I was witnessing the beginning of Tate’s worst nightmare.
“Sure thing.” I grab a plastic goalie stick from the equipment pile and crouch down to the kid’s level, the same way my father used to.
“I want to be a goalie when I grow up,” Alex says. “Like Tate Barnes.”
“He’s one of the greats,” I say, positioning him in front of a makeshift net. My father’s voice echoes in my head.
“Read the shooter’s eyes, not his stick. Eyes never lie.”
“Now, the key to a good glove save is reading the shot early... ”
Across the gym, I spot Tate working with a group of younger kids. He’s in his element, patient and encouraging as he helps a tiny girl who can barely hold her stick. His face is relaxed in a way I haven’t seen since Vegas. No tension, no guarded anger. Just warmth.
This is who he really is underneath all the defensive walls. The personality that his teammates see, the one that drew me to him that night in the bar.
My chest aches.
“Like this?” Alex asks, attempting the glove motion. I snap back to attention.
“Perfect. Now remember, you want to catch the puck, not just block it.” I demonstrate the proper technique while part of my attention stays fixed on Tate.
He’s moved to a group of teenagers nearby, showing them proper stance and positioning. One kid, probably fourteen or fifteen, is hanging on his every word, star-struck.
“Mr. Barnes,” another kid says, “my dad says you might not be the starter for Oakland anymore. Is that true?”
Tate’s smile falters for just a second. But he recovers quickly. “Hockey’s a team sport, buddy. Sometimes coaches make changes to help the team win. That’s just part of the game.”
“But you’re still gonna play, right? You’re not gonna quit or anything?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Tate says firmly. “I promise.”
The confidence in his voice is forced, but the kid doesn’t notice. He grins and goes back to practicing his stance, satisfied that his hero isn’t disappearing.
I watch Tate’s shoulders sag when he thinks no one’s looking. Something is wearing him down…maintaining that promise or projecting confidence he doesn’t feel.
“Coach, watch this!” Alex calls out, attempting another save.
I force my attention back to him, but Tate’s presence is so strong, pulling me closer. Every time he laughs with the kids, every moment of happiness on his face, it all drives the knife of guilt deeper into my chest.
Two hours later, the event winds down. Kids pack up their new equipment, taking pictures with players, joking and laughing.
“Good work today.” Carter walks over to me as I pack up the extra sticks. “The kids love having a goalie coach here. Usually it’s just position players.”
“They’re good kids. Excited to learn.”
“Alex seemed pretty attached to you. He barely left your side.”
I glance over at Alex, who’s showing his mom the new gloves we gave him. “He’s got natural instincts. With the right coaching, he could be really good.”
“You sound like you care.” Carter’s studying me. Perceptive bastard. “That’s good. Sometimes guys do these events just for the PR.”
“It’s not about PR.”
“No, I can see that.” He pauses, watching Tate help a group of kids organize their new equipment. “Barnes is good with them too. He loves to teach. He’s a natural. “
“Yeah, he is.”
“He’s been having a rough stretch lately.” Carter’s tone is casual, but I can hear the underlying concern. “It’s good to see him relaxed like this.”
“These events are good for everyone.”
Carter nods, but I can see him filing away my non-answer. He’s too smart to push, but he’s definitely picking up on something.
Tate appears beside us. “Ready to go?”
Tension thickens the air. Tate’s eyes flick between me and Carter, a glimmer of wariness in his expression.
“Yeah, Coach and I were just talking about the event,” Carter says. “These kids are lucky to have programs like this.”
“Yeah.” Tate’s gaze settles on me. “Real lucky.”
“I should get going.” I grab my jacket from a nearby chair. “See you both at practice tomorrow.”
“Actually, Coach,” Tate says, his words stopping me, “we should probably talk about tomorrow’s session. Make sure we’re on the same page.”
Carter takes the hint. “I’ll wait for you outside. Have a good night, Coach.”
He walks away, leaving me alone with Tate in the rapidly emptying facility.
“What were you and Carter talking about?” Tate asks.
“The event. How good you are with the kids.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He studies my face, like he’s trying to decide whether to believe me. The paranoia in his expression makes my gut clench. He’s used to being discussed, analyzed, judged.
“Look, I know what you think of me. That I’m some broken player who can’t handle the pressure. Some case study for you to fix and move on from.”
“That’s not what I think.”
“No? Then what do you think?”
The honest answer would destroy everything. That I think about him constantly and it’s killing me. Watching him with those kids today reminded me of everything I fell for in Vegas.
“I think you’re better than you know,” I say instead.
His expression shifts. Surprise creeps in. Or maybe it’s hope.
“Prove it,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“At tomorrow’s practice, stop treating me like I’m made of glass. Push me. Challenge me. Treat me like the goalie you think I can be, not the one who’s been falling apart.”
It’s a dangerous request. Pushing him means getting closer, working more intimately, breaking down the professional barriers I’ve been desperately trying to maintain.
But the look in his eyes makes his request impossible to refuse.
“Okay,” I say. “But don’t blame me if you don’t like my methods.”
“I can handle whatever you throw at me.”
The words hang, loaded with double meaning. We’re not just talking about hockey anymore, and we both know it.
“We’ll see,” I say.
I walk away before I can do something stupid, like reach for him.
I shiver, his eyes burning into my back until I’m out the door.
As I drive back to my hotel, I try not to think about the promise I just made to help Tate become the goalie he used to be.
Because helping him means getting closer to him.
And getting closer to him means risking everything I’ve been trying to protect.
Tomorrow, I’m going to push him harder than I’ve pushed anyone. And if that breaks down the walls between us...
Maybe some risks are worth taking.
Even if they might wreck everything else in the process.