Chapter 21 #2
“Things and places change,” Tate snapped, too fast, the sharpness covering the sudden prickle of embarrassment in his chest. He blew out a breath, forced himself to relax his jaw before it locked tight.
“It’s been a few years since I’ve lived here.
I don’t go out to eat much, and I want to impress her.
I’m asking—genuinely asking—so please don’t make me regret this… ”
Batiste’s grin softened, the mocking edge fading. He raised his hands in mock surrender, then dropped into the seat beside Tate, leaning forward on his elbows as though ready to share a secret.
“Non,” Batiste said simply, his tone lowering into something almost conspiratorial.
“You should talk to Thierry. My Aimee likes to stay at ‘ome, but Thierry is friends with the owner of un belle restaurant that is c’est bonne…” He exaggerated the last words, rolling them thickly, then lifted his fingers and kissed them dramatically like a cartoon chef.
Tate pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thierry?” he echoed, hesitating, grimacing as the name settled heavy on his tongue. Of course, it had to be Thierry.
The man was built like some Viking god dragged off a battlefield…
but only if it was a Viking god who wanted to be chummy with you.
The man was built for war but was a poodle around his wife.
Tate had called him ‘Fluffy’ once. Twice.
Okay, maybe more than a few times, because he’d thought it was clever.
Cutting. A jab at the overgrown golden retriever’s image.
Thierry hadn’t found it clever.
And then there’d been that Wolverines game, when one of the Ex-players had gone too far, laughingly calling Thierry ‘Fat Clairol’ across the ice. Tate had thought for sure Thierry would tear the man apart with his bare hands.
Instead, Thierry had laughed – hugging the man – and spoke with him for a few moments before they lined up.
When the game started, the second the whistle blew, Thierry played like a man possessed, flattening anyone in his path.
By the time the horn sounded, no one dared repeat the nickname.
The captain made it clear in the locker room that anyone stupid enough to mock him again wasn’t playing for the next five games.
And Tate, for once in his life, had shut up.
Now, though, the thought of having to ask Thierry of all people for advice about impressing Nettie made Tate’s stomach churn. He would rather take a punch to the jaw.
But Nettie was worth it.
If he could swallow his pride long enough.
The cold air of the rink clung to Tate’s lungs as he pushed off the boards, skating hard across the clean stretch of ice.
His blades carved deep lines into the glossy surface, each stride powerful but controlled.
He was careful today—deliberately careful.
He kept his distance from Thierry, stuck to the drills, and followed every instruction Coach C?te barked out like it was gospel.
No wasted energy, no showing off, no mistakes.
Just solid, technical hockey.
The team rotated through shooting drills, pucks clattering against the boards and ringing off the pipes.
They raced end to end, the sound of blades slicing and skates grinding filling the cavernous arena.
Tate’s muscles burned, but in a good way—everything in sync, body and mind.
The ice was perfect beneath him, smooth as glass, and his form felt sharp.
He could tell the guys were looking forward to Friday’s matchup against the Kodiaks; the energy was different.
It buzzed, almost giddy, beneath the fatigue of practice.
And then it happened.
“Cassidy! See me after practice…”
Coach C?te’s voice cut through the chatter like a knife, stopping Tate in his tracks. His heart jolted. Heads swiveled. A few guys smirked, a few winced in sympathy. Being called out in front of the team always felt like standing under a spotlight, raw and exposed.
From the corner of his eye, Tate noticed Thierry and Coach already bent over the clipboard, their heads close, voices low.
Every so often, Thierry jabbed a finger toward the ice, his brow furrowed as if dissecting every detail.
Tate’s gut twisted. He knew that look—Thierry whispering in the coach’s ear, probably complaining about him again.
Great.
Just great.
The history between them was bad enough. Therapy sessions are because of “team dynamics.” That one ugly punch that had nearly broken his nose. And now this—another ambush waiting at the end of practice.
He skated harder, faster, trying to shove down the creeping dread.
But by the time Coach finally blew the whistle, signaling the end, Tate’s chest felt tight.
The other players were already laughing, tugging at their gear as they clomped toward the tunnel.
He lingered, circling back toward the two men waiting for him at the bench.
He braced himself.
If they benched him before Friday—before Nettie came to watch—it was going to be brutal. Embarrassing. He didn’t want to imagine her sitting in the stands only to see him sidelined.
“Hey Coach, Thierry, what’s up?” Tate asked, forcing his voice to sound casual even though sweat still dripped down his temples and his stomach churned. He leaned on his stick, trying not to fidget.
“Hey, two seconds…” Thierry muttered, still focused on the clipboard. He bent closer to Coach, said something Tate couldn’t make out, then nodded. Finally, Coach looked up, hesitating before gesturing him over.
Tate’s pulse thudded.
“Look, I hate to drop this on you at the last minute,” Coach C?te began, his tone careful. Beside him, Thierry straightened, arms crossed, his sharp gaze locked on Tate. He wasn’t saying a word—just glaring like usual.
Oh gosh.
I’m getting cut?
The blood drained from Tate’s face. His knees felt loose, rubbery, like the ice beneath him was suddenly unsteady. He shifted slightly, pressing one gloved hand against the boards to steady himself as nausea curled in his stomach.
But then Coach kept talking.
“Look, Thierry has to fly home to Vancouver to take care of a few things with his family, so I’d like to have you wear the ‘C’ during the game.
Practice tomorrow, we’re going to throw you to the wolves, into the thick of it, and you need those men to listen to you – do you think you can handle this, Cassidy? ”
For a second, Tate couldn’t process the words.
His brain stuttered.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, blinking at both men. “Can you say that again?”
“We want you as the captain during the next game, like a trial run,” Thierry said quietly, watching him with an expression that wasn’t quite hostile for once.
Then, unexpectedly, Thierry added, “And you need to take your girl to Vinny’s.
He’s got the best cappuccinos, espressos, and affogato al caffe that is to die for.
You won’t get mobbed either. Vinny’s got a private room for a few of his friends. ”
The shift was so abrupt, Tate almost did a double-take.
“Oh man,” Coach chuckled. “I might have to take my wife out there – that affogato is divine, and now I want one. So can you handle the next practice and the game?”
“Yeah,” Tate said, still stunned. His voice sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else. “I’d love to try it on.”
“I know – and I think you can do this, if you can rein them in.”
Tate met Thierry’s eyes. For the first time, he noticed something different there—not just suspicion or dislike, but the faintest trace of a smile. A knowing smile.
“If I were you, I’d get moving and make some polite conversation in the locker room to pave the way for tomorrow,” Thierry said, his tone almost conspiratorial. “I asked Coach to give you a little time before lobbing the bombshell, so use it to your advantage.”
Tate’s throat tightened. For months, Thierry had been nothing but a brick wall, an obstacle, an enemy. Now here he was, extending an olive branch. He swallowed hard, then extended his hand to the blond man.
“Thank you for the chance… and the suggestion.”
“I’ll text you Vinny’s number and let him know you’ll be reaching out.”
“I appreciate it.”
Coach C?te clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Get your team in order… captain. Let’s see how this tryout goes.”