Chapter 9
TATE
The sharp hiss of skates cutting over ice echoed in Tate’s ears as he pushed forward, the cold air burning in his lungs. Every head on the rink seemed to follow him as he crossed the blue line toward Coach C?te. He could feel their eyes on him—waiting. Always waiting.
For the blow-up.
For the broken stick.
For proof that he was a problem and not an answer.
He hated that weight. Hated that he felt like a walking time bomb with half the guys just watching for the moment he’d snap. And with good reason, because he’d done it several times before and each resulted in a talking-to by the coach.
“Coach C?te?” Tate called out, forcing his voice to stay even when his gut twisted.
The older man didn’t glance up right away. His pen scratched across the clipboard with sharp strokes, his expression unreadable under the brim of his cap. Only after finishing his note did he lift his head, his gaze cool and steady.
“Yes, Cassidy? Can I help you?”
Tate swallowed and shifted the stick in his hand, the plastic tape biting into his palm. “I’d like to try something different for the team…”
That stare. Flat, unblinking, assessing him like he was both player and problem in the same breath. Bracing himself for the confrontation that was sure to follow. Would it result in removing him from the ice, indefinite suspension… or worse?
“Have you run it past the captain yet?” C?te asked. “Thierry is handling practice today while I gather notes on a few things I see for improvement. Go speak with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
The words felt heavy as Tate pivoted away, blades scraping the ice. His gaze caught on the cluster of players leaning on their sticks, every one of them watching. Batiste—of course—stood a little straighter and, with exaggerated nonchalance, lifted a middle finger in Tate’s direction.
Nice.
Tate snorted and, instead of ignoring him, stretched out his own arm to flip the man the same signal.
Batiste grinned wolfishly and blew him kisses like some idiot Romeo in shoulder pads.
It was ridiculous. Immature. But for a beat, Tate almost cracked a smile.
The two of them didn’t mix—oil and water—but somehow their rivalry had its own warped rhythm.
He skated up to Thierry, the de facto leader of this practice, and the man he was going to replace someday as the captain of this team.
“Gerry,” Tate began, steadying his voice. “I’d like to make a suggestion…”
Thierry’s brown eyes flicked toward him, calm where Tate’s blood usually ran hot. “Sure. If it’s productive, go for it. I’m all ears.”
Tate exhaled, nerves buzzing. “I’d like to focus on us making shots at the goal—because we could use a little practice and Justin could use some work defending the goal instead of just doing drills or going through the motions.
” He hesitated, grimacing at the man’s frown.
Yeah, Thierry wasn’t going to listen to him because it would be a hit to his pride, and the man didn’t take that well at all, but then again, neither did Tate. “Maybe I’m explaining this wrong.”
“No.”
The flat response hit like a puck to the chest. Tate bristled, temper sparking. “Why not? We don’t need to practice doing drills up and down the ice with—”
“No.” Thierry cut him off again, calmly pressing a hand to Tate’s shoulder before his temper could erupt. His mouth curved just slightly. “You explained it well, and I think it’s a brilliant idea.”
Tate blinked. The whiplash made him do a double-take, enough that Thierry chuckled under his breath.
“We could all use practice making shots and working on our defense,” Thierry continued, voice carrying easily across the rink. “The last game, our defense let one through, and Justin wasn’t able to stop the puck in time. No offense, Justin…”
From the net, Justin clapped his massive, padded gloves together with a muffled thwack, his grin hidden behind his mask. The gesture said everything: Bring it. Test me.
Score one for me, Tate thought – realizing the goalie was on his side.
“What’s your plan?” Thierry asked.
And just like that, Tate found himself laying it out—breaking into groups of three, dividing based on skills, mixing lines so everyone sharpened both offense and defense.
He expected pushback. He expected Thierry to shoot him down, maybe even mock him for overstepping.
Instead, Thierry listened, nodding here and there, and the others chimed in.
For the first time in a long time, Tate didn’t feel like a liability. He felt like he belonged.
Practice shifted. Shots fired, bodies moved, the air thick with the grunt and scrape of hard work. And for a while—just a while—it was good.
Until it wasn’t.
One careless trip sent a rookie sprawling.
Tate nearly plowed over him before cutting sharply to the left.
Tempers flared instantly. Batiste came barreling over, chest puffed, jaw tight, like he had to defend the new guy’s honor.
Giroux lifted his palms in surrender, trying to talk the hotheads down.
And Thierry? Nowhere. Vanished into the background as usual.
That coil inside Tate finally snapped.
If ‘Fluffy’ wasn’t going to lead the team, then he was going to take up the mantle and deal with the consequences… or find another place to hang his hat.
“HEY!” His roar cracked through the rink, echoing like a gunshot. He ripped off his helmet, tossing it hard enough to make it skid across the ice, and slammed his stick down beside it. Fury bled through every syllable.
“I’m here to play, here to get better, here to win,” he snarled, voice raw. “And if you want to fight or act like a bunch of children—bring it. I’ll beat any of you to a pulp without a second thought. But if you want this to be a team, then be a part of it…”
The silence that followed pressed heavily against his ears. A couple of guys muttered under their breath, their glares sharp enough to cut. Tate ignored it, chest heaving.
“I’m not asking for your opinion,” he snapped, words striking like blows.
“I’m telling you what I expect a Coyote to be on the ice.
Take a look at what you think an NHL player’s career should look like.
I have goals—and you’re in my way. Roadblocks get removed.
So either quit goofing off or get it together.
If you want to screw around, fine—do it in the locker room.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, should be affecting your performance on the ice with me. ”
For a moment, it was deathly still.
Then, slow and mocking, came the sound of clapping.
Tate’s head jerked toward Batiste, who was grinning like a devil as he applauded. One… two… three claps, echoing deliberately.
And then, behind Tate, another joined in.
He turned, startled, to see Coach C?te and Thierry both watching. Giroux added his own clap, his smile genuine, approval shining in his eyes.
“Listen up! ‘E is right,” Batiste called out suddenly, his thickly accented voice booming. “We may fight, but ‘e’s right. That’s how you win—as a team. And I want Tate on this team, not facin’ ‘im on the ice like last year.”
Tate couldn’t stop the sharp snort that burst out of him. Of course. Denver. He knew exactly what Batiste meant. That game had been war—Tate had baited him, fought him, gotten them both tossed out, and his team had stolen the win in overtime.
And now? That same man was backing him.
“Allons-y Coyotes!” Batiste hollered, thrusting his stick in the air.
“Let’s do this!” Giroux echoed, lifting his own.
“We’re gonna win these games,” Tate shouted, fire lighting through his veins, his stick raised high. “I want that win—and the next—and the one after that! You hear me? We are Coyotes!”
“I want the Stanley—” someone bellowed.
“I want to slaughter those guys on Friday…”
“Yeah!” the team roared back.
The rink erupted into wild whoops and hollers, players thumping their chests, sticks banging against the boards. The noise rattled the rafters, fierce and unifying. Tate felt a surge of pride so sharp it almost stole his breath.
Thierry’s hand clapped against his shoulder as he skated past, that rare smile curving his mouth—a silent message of support.
“Let’s do this!” Tate screamed, throwing himself back into the fray, his blood pounding with adrenaline. For the first time since joining the Coyotes, he wasn’t the outsider— the reject. It felt like they weren’t just a group of players thrown on the ice.
They were the beginnings of a team.
That night, driving home with the city lights blurring past his windshield, Tate felt like a brand-new man.
His whole body buzzed, alive with something he hadn’t felt in far too long—hope.
Not just the fleeting kind that teased him on a good day, but the kind that clung to his ribs and pulsed in his veins.
Practice had been different tonight. More than drills, more than sweat and shouted orders—it had felt like progress.
For the first time, he’d seen something real in those guys.
Not just individual skaters trying to prove themselves, but the faint, tentative stirrings of a team.
It was fragile, delicate, like ice forming across a pond, but it was there. And he’d helped pull it out of them.
Not because he’d barked louder than the coach.
Not because he’d strutted around with a “C” sewn onto his chest. No—he’d done it by listening, by teaching, by refusing to let them shrug off responsibility.
He’d gone through the proper chain, spoken to them man to man, asked for their input, demanded their best. And when he’d hit his limit, he’d told them flat out what needed to be said.
The coach was right. A captain wasn’t just a title. It wasn’t a badge of honor. It was a bond. A responsibility. A chance to shape something greater than himself. Tonight, Tate had glimpsed that bond, and the rush of it hit him like morphine in a junkie’s veins. He wanted more.
By the time he pulled into his driveway, his chest was tight with determination. He was in one thousand percent.