Chapter 12
TATE
Hours later, Tate pushed open the front door of his house, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like lead, and his ribs were bruised from the scuffle on the ice.
Even his knuckles throbbed where they’d connected with another player’s helmet.
He was bone-tired—but beneath the exhaustion, an electric hum lingered, the kind only victory could leave behind.
The motorcycle ride home hadn’t helped. Dallas streets had been busy even at that hour, headlights blurring into streaks as he weaved through the traffic with the wind in his ears.
Adrenaline still buzzed through him, tapering off, leaving an uncomfortable ache.
The game played on loop in his head, whether he wanted it to or not.
They’d pulled it off. Somehow. Barely.
He replayed it, each missed opportunity like a bruise on his memory.
Giroux’s fumble, Thierry’s shot wide, the way Tate had wanted to slam his stick into the boards in frustration.
But then—he and Batiste had come through.
His shot, clean as a blade’s edge, sliced right past the goalie.
He could still hear the crowd’s roar echoing in his ears.
Still see Justin—rookie Justin—standing tall in the net, saving them time after time.
Tate remembered the locker room, still damp with sweat and victory and disbelief.
“I, for one,” Giroux had said, cutting through the post-game chatter, “would really like to thank ‘Crusty Cassidy’ for the suggestion to practice shots with Justin—because Aldonard? Buddy, you shone out there tonight. Dude, you rocked it and we all noticed.”
Justin had looked stunned, his smile shy, but it was there. “Cassidy, I really appreciate the help, man—and you looking out for me. In fact, I really recognize the fact that I’m only as good as my brothers on the ice… and without you guys? I’d have been screwed tonight.”
That moment hit Tate harder than he’d admit aloud. Recognition. Brotherhood. It was a turning point for the rookie, sure—but also for him. Tate wasn’t the problem, not tonight.
He belonged.
Still, as he’d pulled on his jacket and tuned out the locker room noise, he couldn’t shake the hollow space inside him because victories felt better when someone was there to share them.
Not just anyone.
Nettie.
He wished she’d been there to see it—the glide of that shot across the ice, slick and effortless, sliding into the goal as if fate had guided it.
Even he’d admired it, and he was his own worst critic.
But instead of her cheering in the stands, he’d ended up in a fight, fists flying, heart hammering, and now here he was.
Alone.
Except—
A faint jingle broke through the silence—the bell of a toy batting across hardwood.
“Mulligan?” Tate called, and sure enough, a streak of gray fur came skidding around the corner, legs scrambling to keep up with momentum.
The kitten’s claws clicked on the floor before he launched himself at Tate like a tiny missile.
Tate barked a laugh as the kitten scrambled up his leg. “Hey, buddy!”
The furball clung to his shirt like a climber scaling Everest. Tate gently pried him off, holding the wriggling body up so they were nose-to-nose. “Did you miss me?”
Mulligan’s answering mewl was pitiful enough to melt even Tate’s tired heart. He kissed the kitten between the ears before tucking him under his chin, the steady purr rumbling against his throat.
“I missed you too—though I don’t know why,” Tate muttered, rubbing the little menace’s back.
“You make a mess, you’ve shredded my skin with those tiny daggers you call claws, and you crap like a horse.
You’ll probably grow into some flea-bitten mongrel with an attitude problem that borders on feral…
” He sighed, pressing his cheek against soft fur. “…and I love you for it, sweet boy.”
Mulligan hissed theatrically, then butted his head against Tate’s chin as though in apology.
Tate laughed, loosening his grip and heading toward the couch. He glanced at the clock, noting the late hour. Too late to text Nettie. Too late to say thanks for being there earlier, for making his crappy day a little lighter just by existing, but it was never too late to annoy his sister.
“She deserves it for bailing on us. Right, Mulligan?” Tate asked. The kitten hissed again, which Tate took as agreement. He grinned and opened his phone, his thumbs already moving. Short texts. Single lines. Every one designed to ping her phone and drive her crazy.
Hey!
Thanks a lot for backing out on that favor.
Sheesh.
At least Nettie was nice enough to back you up.
Maybe I should give the tickets to her—and tell her not to take you?
Or better yet?
Maybe I should tell Justin Aldonard to ask Nettie out?
He sat back, smirking when the three little dots appeared on the screen. Bingo. He had her. One single emoji came through— a middle finger.
Tate snorted, shaking his head.
“Nice,” he muttered, scooping Mulligan into his arms as he carried him down the hall. The kitten purred louder, clearly pleased with himself. Tate had just set him on the bed when his phone buzzed again.
The call lit up his screen. Gina.
He answered with a lazy, “Hello?”
“We both know you’d never tell someone else to ask out Nettie,” Gina grumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
“And those tickets are mine because I’m gonna drag her with me, make sure she’s wearing your jersey, and point out every amazing thing you do on the ice because I’m an incredible person despite only having an hour of sleep—so if you are done harassing me, you dreary and dark Dweeb—I’m going to bed now! ”
“Sweet dreams—and nobody asked you to do that.”
“But we both know it makes you happy.”
“I never said that.”
“You never had to. I’m family.”
“So?”
“Don’t ‘so’ me at one in the morning,” Gina snapped. “And don’t threaten me with Justin.”
“Because it works?” Tate challenged.
“You don’t want to go down that road, Tate. Because if you do, then I will make sure Nettie never looks at you twice.”
Tate’s jaw clenched. He hated that she was right, hated that she could throw Nettie in his face, and it landed like a punch to the gut. He wasn’t ready to admit what was going on in his own head, much less hand her the satisfaction of calling him out.
“What do I care?” he shot back, sharper than he meant.
“You do your thing,” Gina chuckled knowingly. “Bark, growl, hiss, whatever, because we both know I’m right. Now, good night.”
“Go eat paint chips.”
“Sweet dreams to you, too.”
“Whatever.”
“Oh—and good game…”
“I’m hanging up now,” Tate muttered, stabbing the screen as her laughter filled his ear.
Mulligan hissed in solidarity, his tiny back arched, tail puffed to cartoonish proportions. Tate sighed and flopped back onto the bed, the kitten leaping onto his chest and settling like a warm stone.
He hated that Gina was right. And worse—he hated that she knew it.
Seeing Nettie earlier on the camera feed, her presence in his house, had been a jolt of unexpected joy he hadn’t realized he was craving. He could still picture her—smiling, wandering room to room, touching his world as if she belonged there.
Had she come in here? Into his bedroom?
What did she think when she saw it?
The thought twisted something inside him, sharp and sweet, until he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in frustration.
“Tate, you’re an idiot…” he muttered aloud, as Mulligan purred louder, unconcerned.