Chapter 4 #2
Tate didn’t know what to do with that. He shifted uncomfortably, running a hand along the back of his neck, still restless.
“Now,” Emil continued, “I’ll finish my dinner, send you a few documents to look over—because, well…”
“You’re modern,” Tate said again, but this time he actually smirked.
“Bravo, my boy!” Emil pointed his fork at the camera like a conductor with a baton. “Text me when you’d like to talk again, and we’ll set a time.”
“How about never?”
“Thursday at five. Brilliant.”
Tate blinked, deadpan. “I think you lied. You don’t actually take no for an answer.”
“I think you’re going to enjoy this as much as I will.” Emil’s smile was calm, assured. “See you Thursday. Don’t be late.”
“What happens if I’m late?”
“It’s in your email.”
The call ended with a quiet click, abrupt and final, leaving him staring at his blank phone screen.
His own reflection glared back at him, the faint blue glow casting hard shadows across his face.
He looked… unsettled. Tired. Broken. Like a man who’d just been cornered without ever seeing the trap being set.
“I think you’re going to enjoy this as much as I will… see you Thursday. Don’t be late.”
Dragging both hands down his face, he muffled a groan against his palms. Emil had twisted him into knots, so effortlessly that Tate hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.
The worst part? The irritation he expected to be simmering in his chest wasn’t there anymore.
No, something else had taken its place—something sharper, more dangerous.
Intrigue.
Curiosity.
Tate pushed away from the couch, forcing his body into motion before his thoughts could spiral.
Crossing the hall, he stepped into the narrow cubby that served as his office, tucked neatly off the main corridor.
Shelves lined both walls, stacked with books he loved.
Special editions gleamed with gilt edges, some bound in leather, others worn soft from years of use.
Small treasures crowded the space, mementos of his life both on and off the ice: a chipped mug from his rookie season, the carved wooden puck he’d bartered for at a flea market, and perched proudly on one shelf—a ridiculous coconut head he’d won at a teammate’s makeshift luau in Denver.
They’d hosted it because his buddy’s wife had been too pregnant to risk flying to Maui, so they’d brought Hawaii to Colorado.
Tate had walked away with that coconut, like he was holding a prized trophy, and kept it.
It still made him feel warm now, though the memory also left a hollow ache in his chest. He hadn’t really fit in Denver – and wasn’t exactly fitting in now with the Coyotes.
Maybe it wasn’t them…
Maybe it was him – and maybe the coach was right.
He dropped into the chair, flipping over a picture frame that had been sitting on the desk – refusing to look at it.
He didn’t let himself linger on it. Instead, he pulled his laptop closer, woke the screen, and opened his email.
Emil’s message waited for him, neat and clinical, a digital dare dressed up in polite language.
The forms were long, the questionnaire even longer.
Tate’s fingers hovered over the keyboard before he forced himself to start.
Each answer tugged something out of him—memories, truths, things he wasn’t used to putting into words.
He typed, deleted, and retyped. At times, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
By the time he finally hit send, exhaustion weighted his limbs.
His brain felt scraped raw, as though Emil had reached through the screen and taken pieces of him he hadn’t meant to give.
He pushed back from the desk with a weary sigh and made his way toward the kitchen.
The house was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against him, heavy and unyielding.
Alone. Always alone. He flicked on the light, the soft hum of the refrigerator greeting him like an old friend.
Automatically, he pulled out the quart of almond milk, gathered a tub of protein powder from a cabinet, the greens mix, and an electrolyte packet.
His hands moved with the muscle memory of routine, dumping ingredients into the shaker and filling it with crushed ice.
The result was swampy and unappetizing, but he didn’t hesitate.
He’d learned long ago that his body didn’t care about taste—it cared about fuel.
Being an athlete meant pushing his body to its limits, then feeding it whatever it needed to keep going—calories, nutrients, hydration.
The ritual was almost meditative, even when it was miserable.
Shaking the bottle, he lifted it to his lips and took a long swallow.
It was salty, bitter, faintly metallic – definitely not something he enjoyed.
He grimaced but kept drinking as he padded down the hallway toward his bedroom.
The shaker rattled in his hand, half-empty, the sound echoing in the otherwise still house.
When he finally set it down on the nightstand and sank onto the bed, the emptiness hit him.
Not just the quiet of the house, but the hollow space inside himself that no amount of books, trophies, or coconut heads could quite fill.
He stretched out across the mattress, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, and felt the cold seep into him.
Empty. Cold. Almost like him.
And so alone.
And still, somewhere deep down, Emil’s voice lingered. Calm. Assured. A spark in the dark that Tate couldn’t quite smother… as he closed his eyes and began to think of what it would be like on the ice, as the captain of the Coyotes, fans cheering in the stands.
Tate’s alarm went off with the most obnoxious chirping sound ever engineered by mankind. He slapped at his phone blindly, half-tempted to hurl it across the room. His muscles already protested at the mere thought of what the day demanded—leg day.
Leg day meant lunges, presses, squats, and that kind of burn that didn’t let up for two or three days.
The kind of ache that crept into his bones and made him question all of life’s choices, especially the one that landed him in professional hockey.
He knew the drill—work until his quads screamed, stretch until he could barely breathe, then subject himself to a massage that felt like being kneaded like dough, an ice bath that would numb him to the marrow, and maybe, just maybe, he’d walk normally again by Thursday.
Groaning, he rolled onto his side and blinked blearily at the glowing screen in his hand. One new message.
From Gina.
He exhaled hard. His sister’s timing was legendary in the worst possible way.
You were mean! You need to apologize…
“Hmmph,” he grunted, thumbs moving sluggishly across the keyboard.
For what?
The reply was instantaneous, like she’d been perched on the edge of her bed waiting for him to wake up.
For being a J. E. R. K.
Tate snorted. His mood was already sour, and Gina tossing sunshine at him before six in the morning wasn’t helping.
For telling her to quit being stupid?
I rest my case – you sure woke up grouchier than normal! It’s been days, and you’re still pissy? Sheesh!
He scrubbed a hand down his face, dragging at his jawline, stubble scratching his palm. Gina was relentless.
You should know better than to encourage someone like Nettie to act like a tramp. When you start a conversation like she did with me, it immediately washes away any scrap of respect.
Would it kill you to be nice?
Would it kill you to use your brain?
He smirked.
SEE? You don’t have to be mean to everyone. I’m your sister, family, and you could be nice to me.
I AM nice to you.
Be nice to Nettie then if you see her again.
She’s not family.
I’m not obligated to be nice.
TATE!
What? I won’t be seeing her again anyhow…
You need therapy, ya jerk.
Already there – but thanks a lot.
His phone buzzed immediately with an incoming call. Tate groaned. Gina. Of course. He swiped to answer but made sure his voice carried every ounce of irritation he felt.
“Seriously, Gina, it’s wayyy too early in the morning to deal with your shiny-sunshine-rainbow-crap,” he muttered, throwing an arm across his eyes as a brutal shaft of sunlight broke through the blinds and stabbed him directly in the corneas.
“Then you get all of the shiny-family-we’re-related crap, jerkwad,” she shot back. “Seriously – how are we even related? What do you mean ‘already there’? Are you in therapy?”
“You got all the bubbles,” he said, half-smiling despite himself. “And I got the rest—you know, the good looks, the build, the smarts, all the finesse…”
“You forgot to mention attitude.”
“It’s there. Just clearly unspoken.”
“Gee—can we?”
“No—we can’t.”
“Don’t-hang-up!” Gina blurted, her words tumbling together like a single rushed plea.
Tate arched an eyebrow beneath the crook of his elbow. She sounded… desperate? There was a panicked tone to his sister’s voice that was not often heard. In fact, he could only recall it happening once when she tore a seam on her prom dress. Yeah, that tone was new – and unsettling.
“Look,” she continued, her voice softening, “things have been tough for Nettie since her GiGi died… and she’s struggling. You know her and—”
“So?” he cut in sharply, but the word snagged in his throat. He hesitated. “Struggling how?”
“I just need you to be a little nicer to Nettie if you see her again.”
“Which I won’t…”
“Which you could,” Gina countered quickly.
“Because she’s still living in her grandmother’s house down the street from Mom and Dad’s place.
And I know you’re coming over for dinner on Sunday.
If you see her, maybe just… turn the growl down a bit.
Wipe up the drool, Cujo. Tone the snarl down to a grimace for everyone’s sake. ”
“I’m not that bad,” he muttered, but the jab hit home harder than he liked. His chest tightened as fragments of the last two weeks came back—the coach’s lecture, the looks from teammates when he’d barked at them, Emil, Nettie’s startled face when he’d snapped at her.
Nettie. Gina’s best friend since forever. The girl who used to tag along like a shadow when they were kids. The girl who giggled too much, asked too many questions, and always, always found a way to get under his skin.
But yeah—she was human. And he admittedly had been a jerk. He knew what he did when people came at him sideways: he fought, he snapped, he retaliated. On the ice. In the gym. He burned it out before they could do it again.
What did Nettie do? Pout? Cry? Sit in that old house with her hurt feelings?
Alone – like him?
The thought made his gut twist uncomfortably.
“What does she do for fun?” he asked before he could stop himself.
There was silence on the other end, then Gina’s suspicious squeal. “OMIGOSH! Are you asking her out on a date?”
“No!” Tate barked, sitting up and scrubbing both hands through his hair. “I thought maybe… a gift. Something to soften things. Cheer her up. Just don’t tell her it’s from me. Let it be from some good Samaritan.”
“Aww, you big softie. I knew you had it in you, underneath all those sour, rotten, and decrepit spots…”
“Don’t make me change my mind,” he snapped, heat climbing his neck. “I’m not in the mood for your mouth. I’m attempting to do something nice for my sister.”
“For Nettie…” she stressed.
“For my sister because she’s bugging the crap out of me,” he corrected. “What does Nettie do for fun? Music? I could grab her a gift card. Does she like books?”
“She knits and crochets stuff.”
Tate pulled the phone away from his head, stared at it, like it had suddenly changed shape or sprouted wings, before putting it back against his ear.
“Are you serious? So she acts like a grandma just like her name? She’s what…
twenty-four? Twenty-five? Why in the world would she want to spend her time knitting?
Does she need a sweater – I’ll buy her ten stupid sweaters if she needs clothing. Sheesh…”
“Hey, she was raised by her grandmother, remember? And she actually enjoys knitting and crocheting things. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“Never gonna happen,” he muttered flatly. The mental image of him holding knitting needles nearly made him laugh—and puke. He would look like a moron holding those little, tiny things.
“Just get her some pretty yarn and she’ll be golden. Oh! And maybe a sweet little note that tells her—”
Click.
Tate hung up, tossed the phone onto the charger, and then set it to ‘Do Not Disturb’. He’d already endured enough sunshine and rainbows for one morning – but even he had his limits.
Gina was a romantic fool and thought everyone should be in a relationship, something that his parents had fostered, supported, heck, even encouraged despite the multitude of times he’d abolished that idea for himself.
He didn’t want a relationship with someone – and he didn’t even know if his own sister was dating someone.
Maybe he should go to dinner on Sunday instead of bailing on them like he’d considered?
But as he dragged himself toward the shower, he couldn’t shake the image of Nettie with her hands full of yarn, her eyes too big, too soft, and sitting cross-legged on the couch like he remembered that she used to do as a teenager.
She’d always been so… gentle, he thought silently, stepping under the spray, closing his eyes.
Too gentle.
Too tender-hearted.
Too… Nettie.
Dousing his head under the streaming water, he sighed heavily.
Where the heck do you buy yarn anyhow?