Chapter 21
TATE
“Oh, thank goodness…”
Tate muttered gratefully under his breath as he tossed his phone into his cubby, the device landing with a dull clack against the worn wood. He sat down on the bench in the locker room, changing into his uniform for an afternoon practice session to get ready for the game on Friday.
The last three days had been awful with the waiting, the wondering if he shouldn’t have kissed her cheek at all – or if he should have just picked her up and carried her inside her house— because the thought had crossed his mind.
Was she mad he hadn’t made an advance on her, did she hate him for it, or worse – what if he cared more than she did?
No, that couldn’t be it.
Nettie’s cheeks, flushed pink from the cold, the way her eyes had flickered up to his in that breathless moment, was everything.
The fact that they’d had a wonderful time together without fighting was probably the best thing he’d experienced since his hat trick two years ago—the one that had pushed his team into the playoffs and had the crowd chanting his name.
Only this time, the victory had nothing to do with hockey.
But the silence afterward?
Torture.
Pure and simple.
He dragged a hand through his damp hair, trying to focus, trying to shake off the sting of the memory. Even Emil had noticed last night. Tate had tried to act normal during their session, but Emil saw straight through him.
“You’re not talking to me,” Emil said simply, looking into the screen and tapping his fingertips together annoyingly. “Spill it.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t ‘nothing me’ – I’m your therapist. I get paid to listen to all the ‘nothings’ in your life.”
“No, you get paid to help me get along with the team, and the end goal is to make me the team captain – and then I’m done with you.”
“So you think…”
“So I know…” Tate had snapped bitterly. His tone came out harsher than he meant, bitterness fueled by Nettie’s silence. “I never wanted to do this. Therapy is for whack jobs who can’t handle life and…”
“Therapy is for everyone,” Emil interrupted firmly, his voice gentle and unbudging.
“Therapy is for the mother who needs an hour of peace to vent about her children fighting all the time. It’s for the child who can’t understand why children are so mean and just wants to be accepted.
It’s for the man who lost his dog, his child, his spouse, or his parent.
Therapy is for the ninety-year-old man who lost his wife and can’t figure out how to cook two biscuits instead of an entire can – and weeps over her loss every time he makes breakfast because she’s not there,” Emil stressed softly, his voice full of strength, compassion, and understanding.
“Therapy isn’t just for the people who have had a psychotic break.
It’s for everyone who needs an ear to listen, a friend to share with, an unconditional person to be there when they need them. ”
Tate swallowed silently, listening as Emil sat forward, closer to the screen like he was about to impart some secret of the universe.
“And – believe it or not – it’s for the hockey coach who can’t figure out how to reach his best player who is hell-bent on alienating himself from the team…
and it’s especially for that same player who doesn’t realize that he’s not alone on the ice, but surrounded by guys who want to be his friend and teammate… . if he would simply let them in.”
Tate’s stomach twisted. It was brutal. It was true. And it left him with no defenses.
So he told Emil everything.
Tate told Emil about how, as a teenager, he always thought she was so irritating, annoying, and flighty.
He griped about how Nettie and his sister would giggle, play, and hang out during the summer, acting older than their age, and he confessed that for the first time he looked at Nettie differently.
It had been the summer before Tate left for college.
He’d just graduated from high school, and she had just come over to hang out with his sister, wearing this bikini that hid very little from his eyes.
It had been so disturbing, so earth-shattering that it left a scar, a mark, that he’d tried to run from.
“And what happened?” Emil said softly.
“She told me she liked me,” Tate muttered.
“And I blew up.” His throat went tight, the shame still clinging after all these years.
“I was mad. Mad, she was chasing after someone like me when all I wanted was to get out, to make the big leagues. I had plans—ambition—and she didn’t seem to care about anything but laughing and smiling… ”
“And that bothered you?” Emil asked quietly.
“It pissed me off,” Tate admitted, his voice raw. “She had no drive. No desire to push herself. And now? She’s still in her grandmother’s house with nothing.”
“She has nothing?” Emil tilted his head. “Or is it nothing to you?”
Tate bristled. “What the heck does that mean?”
Emil’s questions came sharp and deliberate, each one another check into the boards.
“Does she have a job?”
“Yes.”
“Did she go to college?”
“Yes. She has her degree in childcare development or something like that…”
“And she lives in a house?”
“Her grandmother’s house.”
“So she has a house I assume is paid for, a college degree, and a job…” Emil said smiling softly at him. “What would she need to earn your respect?”
“It’s not respect,” Tate scoffed. “I respect the heck out of her. She just… she needs to try harder.”
“At what?”
“At me!” Tate’s voice cracked with frustration, the truth ripping out before he could stop it. “She needs to try harder at being with me!”
Emil chuckled softly. “Because you’re so sweet and friendly?”
“I don’t talk to her like that,” Tate growled.
“Just me?”
“You get paid to take my crap.”
“No,” Emil countered calmly, “I get paid to help you. You shovel your crap at anyone you think isn’t worth your time.
And before you open your mouth again—think about this.
Has therapy helped you focus? Has it given you Mulligan, that adorable cat you adore?
Has it stopped you from beating your teammates to a pulp at practice? ”
Tate flushed hotly, humiliation burning his skin. “Coach C?te told you about that?”
“If you’d let me, Tate, we could do so much more together.” Emil leaned closer, his tone softening. “What was bothering you when you logged in?”
“Like what?”
“Well, what was bothering you when you logged in?”
“I told Nettie to text me tomorrow – and it’s been a few days.”
“So reach out to her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she could contact me…”
“Because you told her to,” Emil reminded.
“Yeah.”
Emil smiled slyly. “Nettie doesn’t strike me as the type to follow your rules. But you could always lead a horse to water another way besides breaking its legs and shoving its head under.”
“I don’t do that!” Tate snapped, then swallowed, his chest tightening. “I’m not that pushy.”
“She’s a person,” Emil said softly. “A person that means a lot to you… so, show her that you are thinking of her.”
“By texting her first?”
“If you want her to move mountains, think bigger.”
“I bought her yarn and she never used it – she knits or does her crochet-stuff with everything but what I bought her.”
“Maybe she thinks it's special because you gave it to her?” Emil said with a knowing smile. “Was it the first gift you gave her?”
“Sorta…”
“Why not send flowers? Every woman loves a display of affection…”
“But I don’t love her…” Tate snarled at the screen, trying to cover the fact that he felt like a fool for not thinking of it himself.
“We’ve never discussed love,” Emil replied gently with this smirk plastered all over his face. “But maybe we should?”
“We’re done today,” Tate snapped – ending the Zoom session without a second thought, but Emil’s words lingered.
That night, Tate found himself scrolling through endless arrangements, his chest tight as he picked out an extravagant bouquet of roses, a crystal vase, a balloon, and a card. He froze with the pen in his hand, the blank space taunting him. What could he write that didn’t sound desperate?
Emil’s voice echoed in his mind. Lead her in the direction you want her to go.
“She’s not a dog,” Tate muttered, scowling. But then he remembered their bike ride, their dinner, the easy conversation about candy that had made him laugh harder than he had in years. He wanted to tell her that. He wanted her to know he wanted more.
So he wrote it.
Simple.
Honest.
Straight from the soul.
And curse Emil—it worked.
A shadow fell across him interrupting his thoughts and bringing him back to the present, where he was sitting in the Coyotes locker room. A hand clamped down on his shoulder with too much familiarity.
“Bonhomme,” Batiste said cheerfully, his French-Canadian accent carrying more warmth than Tate usually had patience for. “What’s got you in a good mood, eh?”
Tate’s first instinct was to shrug him off, to jerk his shoulder away and snap something sharp that would put the man back in his place.
He wasn’t used to people touching him, wasn’t used to anyone noticing his moods—especially when they were good ones.
His private moments were meant to stay private.
But for once, Tate didn’t retreat. Maybe it was the echo of Nettie’s words buzzing through his veins like caffeine. Maybe it was the flicker of hope that refused to be tamped down. Whatever it was, it had him lifting his gaze to meet Batiste’s grin instead of scowling it away.
“My girlfriend,” Tate said, and the words felt foreign and fragile on his tongue. His voice cracked slightly, betraying him. He swallowed, straightened, and added, “Where’s a really nice place to take a girl when you want to impress her?”
Batiste blinked. Then his eyebrows shot up as his smile stretched into something downright gleeful.
“Qu’est que c’est?” Batiste said in disbelief, his voice pitching high as if Tate had just announced he was growing wings. “You grew up ‘ere…”