Chapter 11
ELEVEN
tate
This place feels different today. But not because there are no screaming crowds, teammate banter, or distractions.
It’s because of the way Zane looked at me yesterday when I said, “prove it.” Like I’d just dared him to do something that had fuck all to do with hockey.
I’ve been warming up for ten minutes, running through my usual stretches, waiting.
And damn curious.
My phone’s been buzzing all morning with texts and social media notifications about Parker’s performance. I’ve ignored them all. Today it’s just about getting my shit together on the ice.
The arena door opens, and Zane skates out, a bag of pucks slung over his shoulder. There’s something different about him today. He seems harder. More focused. Like he finally decided to stop treating me like I might break if he pushes too hard.
He arranges the pucks in a perfect line with the same obsessive organization I’ve noticed in everything he does. Papers on his desk, equipment in his bag, even the way he laces his skates. Control freak habits.
“You ready for this?” he asks, dumping the last few pucks on the ice.
“Depends on what ‘this’ is.”
“You wanted me to stop babying you. To actually coach you.” He grabs a puck and heads to center ice, blades cutting across the smooth surface. “So that’s what we’re gonna do.”
His voice has an edge of authority I haven’t heard before. Like he’s done playing games and decided to show me what he’s really capable of.
A shiver ripples through me, but it has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the new layer I’ve just peeled back.
“Good,” I say, dropping into my stance. “It’s about fucking time.”
The first shot comes hard and low to my blocker side. I drop and kick it away, but he’s already shaking his head before the puck hits the boards.
“Again. And don’t drop so early. Read the fucking release.”
Second shot. I wait a half second longer, track the puck from his stick to my pad, and make the save.
“Better. Again.”
Third shot. Fourth. Fifth. Each one testing a different part of my game. Glove side high. Five-hole. Short side where I have to be perfect with my angle.
For twenty minutes, he runs me through drill after drill. Each one faster, harder, and more demanding than the last. No “good job,” no “nice save.” He doesn’t coddle. My legs burn, sweat dripping down my back and icing under my jersey.
It’s exactly what I asked for, but fuck, it’s harder than I expected.
Not because the shots are tough. Because of the way he’s watching me.
Every movement, every save, every mistake…he sees it all. And I like being under his microscope. Hell, I’d like to be under his everything and that rogue thought has me swallowing a groan.
Minutes fly by while he studies me. And when I make a good save, there’s something in his eyes that looks like pride. Like he’s seeing something in me that I’ve forgotten was there.
“Break,” he calls out after a drill that leaves my chest heaving and my body ready to drop face-first onto the ice.
I skate over to the bench and grab my water bottle. It feels good, the way he’s coaching me right now. Like I’m back.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, skating up next to me.
“Like I got hit by a fucking truck.” I drain half the bottle, the cold water sloshing in my empty belly. “In a good way.”
“Your timing’s better. You’re reading shots instead of guessing.”
“Yeah?” I slant him a glance, wiping my mouth with the back of my glove. “What changed?”
“You stopped thinking so goddamn much and started trusting your instincts.”
He’s right. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t overthinking every save, second-guessing every movement. I was just playing hockey the way I used to. The way that made me good enough.
“My dad used to say that.” I guzzle the rest of the water. “Trust your gut, not your head.”
“Smart man.”
“Yeah, he is. Just wish he could see me play without wondering what the hell happened to his son’s career.”
Zane’s quiet for a moment, and I realize I just shared something real. Something that has nothing to do with our professional relationship and everything to do with the pressure I’ve been carrying.
“Ready for round two?” he asks, and there’s something softer in his voice now.
“Bring it.”
This time, he changes up the dynamic completely.
Instead of standing still and shooting, he starts moving.
Skating in, cutting across the crease, forcing me to track him and the puck at the same time.
It’s the kind of drill that mimics real game situations, where forwards are bearing down on you and you have to make split-second decisions.
It’s harder. More complex. I have to trust him completely, to know he’s not going to run me over or put me in a position where I’ll get hurt.
The first few reps are rough. I’m late on my movements, fighting the urge to guess instead of read.
My positioning is off, and my angles are sloppy as hell.
I’m dragging ass all over the ice, breathless, beaten down, and aching.
Then something starts to click. I start to anticipate his moves, reading his body language, and getting myself to where the puck’s going instead of where it is.
“Fuck yeah,” he says after I rob him on a backhand deke that would have fooled me a week ago. “That’s what I wanted to see.”
He’s breathing hard now, hair plastered to his forehead. When our eyes meet across the ice, something passes between us that has nothing to do with goaltending.
Chemistry. Connection.
“Again,” I say, because I don’t trust myself to say anything else.
The next sequence is even more intense. He comes at me from every angle, changing speeds and directions, testing how well I can stay with him. Left side, right side, between the legs, behind the net and back out front. His movements are fluid and unpredictable.
But instead of feeling overwhelmed, I feel alive. Every nerve fires, every instinct is sharp. This is what hockey’s supposed to feel like. This is what I’ve been missing.
When he cuts to his backhand and I slide across to make the save, we come to a stop. Close enough that I can see the gray flecks in his blue eyes, the small scar on his temple. Close enough that when he reaches for the post to steady himself, his gloved hand brushes against my shoulder.
The contact lasts half a second max, but a surge of electricity shoots straight down my groin. My breath catches.
“Good save,” he says, his voice rough.
“Good shot.”
We stare at each other now. His chest rises and falls. His expression shifts from guarded to want. Things I haven’t seen since that night in Vegas. The same desperate hunger that made us both forget everything else in the world existed.
My skin tingles under his heated gaze, my fingers itching to fist his messy hair, to taste him again. With a pounding heart, I lean closer. This is dangerous territory. One of us needs to break eye contact before we do something we’ll both regret.
But neither of us moves.
“Tate... ” he says, and my name sounds different now.
I push away from the post, putting space between us before I do something stupid. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because we both know where this goes. And I can’t handle that right now.”
He narrows his eyes, his lips pulled into a tight line. Seconds pass.
“What if I told you that working with you like this - really working with you - is the best part of my day?”
The honesty in his voice nearly cracks me open. “I’d say you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Then I’d say it doesn’t matter.” I adjust my mask, using the action to avoid his eyes. “Because in a few weeks or months, you’ll move on to your next job. And I’ll still be here, trying to fix whatever’s left of my career.”
“What if I told you I don’t want to move on?”
The words are like a confession neither of us is ready for.
“I’d say we should get back to work,” I finally say.
He nods, but I can see disappointment flash across his face before he covers it. “One more drill.”
This time when he skates toward me, there’s something different about his approach. It’s more aggressive.
The shot comes hard and high to my glove side. I reach for it, stretching to make the save, but my balance is off and I’m falling backwards even as the puck hits leather.
But before I crash into the net, strong hands grab my shoulders, steadying me.
“I got you,” Zane says.
We’re pressed together now, his arms around me. Body heat radiates through our gear. I can smell his soap, his cologne. The same scent that haunted me for months after Vegas. The same one that triggered me the second he flew back into my airspace.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Anytime.”
But he doesn’t let go. And I don’t pull away.
Shit, this is bad.
We stand there, silent, both panting, both aware of exactly how close we are and exactly how much trouble we’re in if either of us makes a move. His face is inches from mine, close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Close enough that if I shifted, our mouths would be...
“We should... ” I start, but I don’t finish.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “We should.”
Still, neither of us moves. His hands stay on my shoulders, warmth radiating through my gear. His breath flutters against my face. I can see the way his eyes drop to my mouth for just a second before meeting mine.
This is the moment where everything changes or we both walk away pretending it never happened.
The practice facility door bangs open, the sound echoing across the ice.
“Afternoon skate time,” Carter’s voice carries across the rink as he and a few other guys head toward the locker room.
Zane releases me like I just burned him. The professional distance snaps back into place so quickly it gives me whiplash.
“Good session,” he says, squaring his shoulders.
“Yeah. Thanks for pushing me.”
“That’s what you asked for.”
I nod and start collecting pucks, but my hands won’t stay steady.
As I skate toward the tunnel, a sudden jolt of electricity zaps my insides. When I glance over my shoulder, he leans against the side of the net, watching me leave.
We’ve been dancing around this line for weeks. One of us is going to cross it.
The only question is who’s going to break first.