Chapter 2
TATE
Tate drove his shoulder into the other player with bone-jarring force, the crack echoing off the boards like a rifle shot.
The whistle shrilled, sharp and useless, cutting across the ice but ignored.
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The heat and frustration pumping through his veins demanded release, and it came in the form of raw aggression.
This was supposed to be a scrimmage.
Practice.
A simple drill where teammates played at half-speed, gave each other room, and coasted when the whistle blew.
But Tate Cassidy didn’t believe in coasting.
Not after clawing his way through years in Denver, where every inch of ice was fought for like it was oxygen or his very lifeblood.
He hadn’t bled, broken bones, and fought through concussions just to come home and play patty-cake hockey with a bunch of half-wits.
The North Texas Coyotes wanted him—a hometown boy returning with a shiny contract, endorsements lined up, and dollar signs flashing in every headline. It was a sweet gig, no denying it. All he had to do was keep his nose clean. Stay out of trouble.
Should be easy, right?
That’s where the problem started.
Nothing was easy.
Tate had ambitions. He was aggressive, fearless, and never backed down from a fight. Conflict pumped in his veins, and if there was even a ripple of disagreement, he took it as a personal challenge to bring that ‘boil’ to a head or remove it altogether.
And the team had a few ‘boils’ in his opinion.
“We’re on your team, bonhomme!” Theo Batiste roared, flinging his gloves and stick to the ice with a clatter that echoed in the rink. He squared up, fists cocked, eyes flashing murder as he spat blood out onto the ice. “If you’re wanting to fight, let’s do it—eh?”
Tate didn’t bother answering. He cut a wide arc with his skates, ignoring the burn in his thighs, and brushed past Batiste’s buddy, Travis Giroux, hard enough to nearly knock him off balance. While the other newbie to the team, Dominic, just whistled low, egging the rest of them on.
“What the heck is his problem?” Giroux snapped, catching himself.
Problem? Tate almost laughed. They didn’t want to see what a problem really looked like. He scanned the ice until his glare landed on the man he despised most—Gerry Thierry, captain of the Coyotes.
Thierry was everything Tate hated in a hockey player: big, talented, but soft to the core.
The man gave new meaning to ‘Gentle Giant’.
His long blond hair hung from beneath his helmet like some shampoo commercial, and he carried himself like he was God’s gift to women.
The only thing he gifted the Coyotes was mediocrity.
No wonder half the starting team had bailed to join the expansion franchise up in Quebec.
The Coyotes were a joke.
A hockey franchise that was sinking fast, kept afloat only by nostalgia and whatever desperate, faithful fans were left in Dallas. Tate hadn’t come here to drown with them. Coming home was ideal for him, and the money was right, but he would never go down with the ship.
Tate was going to drag the Coyotes Hockey team kicking and screaming back into relevance. And if Thierry thought he was going to lead them there? Tate would crush that fantasy like he crushed opponents on the ice.
“Tate…? Tate, let’s talk for a minute.” Thierry’s voice carried across the rink, calm, almost patronizing.
Tate didn’t break stride. He didn’t respect the man enough to answer. If he’d known what kind of soft, family-first, play-nice garbage this team stood for, he might’ve stayed in Denver—even with the cutthroat locker room and the suffocating pressure. At least they cared about one thing: winning.
The Coyotes? They cared about who had to leave practice early for a PTA meeting, who was volunteering for a church fundraiser, or who needed the night off for a kid’s birthday.
They weren’t hockey players. They were teammates.
Buddies. They were a family. And Tate wasn’t interested in joining around their little campfire singing Kumbaya.
“Cassidy—office. Now.” Coach C?te’s voice cracked like a whip. Then, sharper: “Thierry, you too.”
Tate expected someone—anyone—to chirp a sarcastic “oooh” like grade-schoolers getting sent to detention—instead, silence. Just a dozen pairs of eyes staring at him like he’d grown horns. Like he was the devil himself for doing exactly what he was paid to do—play hard and win.
Fine.
Let them stare.
He coasted to the bench, ripped off his helmet, and stalked off the ice.
The rubber mat squeaked under his skates as he snatched up a bottle of water, squeezing it hard enough to crack the plastic before guzzling it down.
Behind him, he heard Thierry’s easy stride, the guy’s skates clicking against the rubber with the rhythmic, irritating sound of a horse trotting.
Tate smirked bitterly. The guy was the human equivalent of a My Little Pony, all shine and show - no bite.
Inside Coach C?te’s cramped office, the smell of sweat, leather, and stale coffee clung to the walls. Tate dropped into a chair, sprawling back with casual defiance. He met the coach’s eyes with a bored expression, daring him to start.
“What was that on the ice?” C?te demanded, voice low but sharp.
“Batiste was in my way.”
“So you slammed your teammate into the boards?”
Tate tilted his head, deliberately slow, like he was explaining math to a toddler. Thierry walked into the room and shut the door behind him like some mafia hitman lurking in a corner. It grated on his nerves to know that the man was here, witnessing him getting talked to by the coach.
“I body checked my opponent. Took the puck. Scored.” His lip curled as their faces darkened.
He looked between the two of them in disbelief – and hesitation.
Thierry was folding his arms, and the coach’s mouth tightened.
“What? Aren’t we supposed to scrimmage like it’s a real game?
Play like we mean it? Or do you want me to hold hands and sing songs out there? ”
“You don’t have to injure the other players,” C?te snapped.
“Oh no.” Tate widened his eyes, batting his lashes in mock horror. “Were Batiste’s widdle feelings hurt?”
Coach opened his mouth, but Thierry held up a hand, stepping in. Tate almost laughed. Of course. The captain always had to swoop in and save the day, like he knew how to reach him.
“Oh, this should be good,” Tate muttered under his breath.
Thierry dragged in a deep breath like he was praying for patience. One second, Tate was leaning back in the chair, shoulders loose and jaw tight, tuning out whatever lecture Thierry was winding up to give, and the next—
“Do you have a sister, Tate? A girlfriend? A wife?” Thierry’s voice was maddeningly calm, so steady it almost sounded like a challenge.
Tate blinked, caught completely off guard. The guy was huge, quiet most of the time, with that calm-giant routine that drove him absolutely insane. And now he was poking around in Tate’s personal life? Why?
“I’ve got a sister,” Tate said begrudgingly, narrowing his eyes, already wary of where this was going. Was this another way to get all chummy with him? He didn’t want to be buddies with Thierry – in fact – he didn’t want to be anywhere with this man.
Thierry didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even give Tate time to brace himself.
His fist shot out in one swift motion, landing square on Tate’s nose with a crack that lit his skull on fire.
White-hot pain shot through his face. His ears rang, his vision exploded in spots, and for a second, he thought the entire room tilted.
It was like he’d tripped directly into a brick wall – with four fingers and a thumb.
Tate reeled, clutching his nose as his eyes watered, anger flaring hot and bright.
“What the—” Tate snarled angrily, tasting blood. Thierry leaned in slightly, voice still maddeningly steady, like nothing had happened.
“Do you think your sister would appreciate it if I did that to her? Especially during practice?”
Rage spiked. Tate shoved himself upright, blood pounding in his ears. “You ever lay a hand on me again or my sister—”
“I wouldn’t dare touch anyone like that - and you need to think the same way.” Thierry’s eyes hardened, and for once his calm wasn’t soft—it was sharp, dangerous. “But if you bodyslam one of the guys from our own team into the boards again like you did just now, I’ll put you in the hospital.”
The threat made Tate’s chest tighten with a rush of intensity. He grinned, a feral thing meant to show he wasn’t backing down. If the man wanted to pick a fight – Bring. It. On.
“I’d like to see you try… Fluffy.”
Thierry’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t rise to it. Nearby, Coach C?te groaned and rubbed his forehead, speaking.
“Oh my gosh, he’s got Coeur’s mouth and Batiste’s temperament. So help me—no one is putting anyone in the hospital, got it? We are a team. We need to act like it.”
Tate’s lip curled. “Why won’t you ask him why he’s so untouchable out there? He’s soft. He doesn’t even break a sweat playing or try.”
That got Thierry’s attention. His calm cracked just slightly, a flicker of heat sparking in his eyes. “Why you little—”
“What?” Tate cut in, leaning forward with a smirk. “Truth hurts, Fluffy?”
“You can call me ‘Fluffy’ all you want,” Thierry shot back, voice low but carrying weight. “I’ve been called worse. But that’s the difference you don’t understand, Tate. We’re a team. Brothers. A family.”
Tate rolled his eyes and muttered, “Oh heck, here we go again…”
Thierry didn’t stop. “And if you were playing like you had our backs, like you were part of us, then I wouldn’t care.
But you don’t. You don’t respect anyone on this team.
I don’t even know if you’re capable of it.
You’re a loner, a hater, a player who wants people to acknowledge and worship him on the ice… but alone – you are nothing.”
The words dug deeper than Tate wanted to admit. His throat felt tight, but he shoved it down, masking it with a glare.
“Which is why Cassidy’s starting therapy,” Coach C?te interrupted before Tate could bite back.
His tone carried finality, the kind that silenced both of them.
The coach turned to Thierry. “Get back on the ice. And keep an eye on Batiste—I don’t need him trying to murder Tate before practice ends.
The man’s running on fumes since he found out his wife is pregnant, and his temper’s a powder keg. ”
“Yes, sir.” Thierry gave a sharp nod, his obedience grating against Tate’s nerves. He didn’t resist the jab—he just took it and moved, like he believed in all that brotherhood garbage. Tate couldn’t help it—he mocked Thierry’s stiff tone under his breath.
The second the door shut, Coach C?te’s eyes pinned Tate in place. The silence was heavier than Thierry’s punch or the words he’d said, trying to get under his skin.
“You don’t respect him, do you?”
“Nope,” Tate popped his lips and leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance he didn’t quite feel. “Don’t like the man. Think he’s too soft, too focused on being everybody’s friend instead of addressing the real issues that we have on the ice.”
The coach steepled his fingers, studying him like a hawk. “Such as?”
“Such as Batiste could do a heck of a lot more for the team if he’d shut up and quit fighting.
Thierry’s built like a tank and should be blocking, not babysitting.
And our goalie?” Tate let out a humorless laugh.
“He’s a pansy. He flinched yesterday. Again.
We need someone willing to dive, even if it means eating a stick to the face.
And don’t even get me started on Dominic—”
“I get it.” C?te chuckled, cutting him off with a nod. “Now tell me this, Tate. If you went out there and called Justin a pansy to his face would he listen? Would he change for you?”
The question hung in the air.
Tate hesitated.
He didn’t like where this was going… at all.
“And if you told Batiste to quit running his mouth, right after body-checking him into the boards, do you think he’d respect you? Do you think he’d listen—if you were wearing the ‘C’ today?”
Silence settled over the room like a thick blanket. Tate shifted in his seat, his jaw clenching, the sting of Thierry’s punch still throbbing in his nose.
Coach C?te leaned forward.
“Thierry bonds with these men because he needs them to listen when he speaks. And they do. If you think you’re more qualified to lead, then the first thing you need is their respect.”
Tate’s mouth went dry.
Respect.
The word felt foreign, heavy, irritating.
“I don’t need this pep talk,” he muttered, trying to sound dismissive.
“Then go pack your things.” C?te’s tone was calm and decisive.
He leaned back in his chair as if he’d already made peace with the decision.
“If you won’t listen to me—or your team’s captain—then you’re uncoachable.
And I don’t need uncoachable. This team is more than one person on the ice giving their all.
I need someone who can be a driving force, someone with room to grow. I thought that was you, Tate.”
Tate swallowed hard. His pride screamed to walk out, but something in his chest twisted uncomfortably, rooting him in place.
“I want you to meet with a therapist,” C?te continued. “Your frustrations, your temper, the way you clash—it’s holding you back. The key to being a leader isn’t a letter on your jersey. It’s whether the team listens when you speak. Leaders aren’t assigned, Tate. They’re grown.”
C?te’s gaze sharpened, pinning him like a spotlight. “So you need to decide. Right here. Right now. Do you have it in you to grow with the Coyotes, or should I start looking for another enforcer?”
The words cut through him, sharper than Thierry’s fist. His job was on the line, and he knew it.
“Is the therapist hot?” Tate asked, simply to get a rise out of the coach – and heard his knowing chuckle.
“It’s a sixty-year-old man with a toupee – so it’s kinda up to you and how you let your freak flag fly, brother,” Coach C?te joked, grinning at him. “I think you’ll like Emil a lot – and I talk to him on a regular basis because none of us is above improving who we are as a whole.”
“You do?”
“Sure. I’m always looking to learn new ways to reach out to my ‘kiddos,’” Coach C?te teased, handing him a business card.
“Even my problem ‘kids’ who have more potential than they know what to do with. Give this a shot and work on bringing the guys to your side as teammates – I think you’d be surprised at how well things go. ”
Tate didn’t answer.
He simply took the card and the advice, needing a moment to think.