Chapter 22
NETTIE
“Hello?” Nettie said blindly into the phone as she skillfully tossed it onto her shoulder at the same time that she was scooping the peanut butter out of the measuring cup and into the bowl. A cloudy puff of powdered sugar flew up, making her wince at the mess.
She was too keyed up with excitement at Tate’s flowers that nothing could bring her down from this high right now. Her beautiful bouquet of rosebuds was sitting on the small dinette table just outside of the galley kitchen within view, gleaming underneath the lamp above hanging down.
“Are you busy?” Tate began – and there was something to his voice that made her pause completely, setting down the measuring cup, the spoon, everything, as she held her breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m… oh man,” he said emotionally. “Nettie, I’m wearing the ‘C’ on Friday.”
“Is that good?”
“Captain,” he explained, chuckling thickly, almost like it was too much. “I’ll be the team captain on Friday when you come to the game – and I’m so excited I could just explode right now. I had to tell someone. I hope I’m not bothering you – but this is big for me, really big.”
Her chest tightened, her throat swelling with a rush of tenderness that almost choked her. Tate never called like this—unguarded, ecstatic, boyishly eager. Never. That he was choosing to share this moment with her was overwhelming in its sweetness.
“Oh, Tate, I’m so happy for you,” she said softly, her voice wobbling as tears pricked at her lashes. She wiped at her cheek, suddenly laughing at herself. “You deserve this shot, and I’m glad you are getting it.”
“Oh my gosh, I’ve been wanting this chance ever since I signed with the Coyotes… and… are you home?” His question tumbled out abruptly, eager, impulsive.
“Yes, I was just making a few things,” she answered carefully, glancing guiltily at the mess of bowls and powdered sugar dust coating her countertop.
“I’ll be there in a few.”
Her heart skipped. “You’re coming over?”
“Is that okay?”
“Absolutely,” she said nervously. “I’ll make some coffee and pick up really quickly. Yes – go ahead and come over.”
“On my way,” he said, hanging up.
And just like that, the line went dead.
For one suspended second, Nettie stood frozen with the phone in her hand.
Then she let out a shriek that could’ve rattled the neighbors.
Dropping everything, she bolted out of the kitchen, the forgotten peanut butter and sugar abandoned mid-recipe.
Her house suddenly looked like the wreckage of a small tornado in her eyes.
Her shoes were scattered near the couch, a throw blanket slouched off one side of the armrest, a mug with lipstick smudges on the coffee table.
She dashed around in a frenzy, scooping things up, shoving them into corners, heart racing like she was prepping for a royal inspection. He couldn’t see her like this. Not Tate.
Her gaze darted down at herself, and horror gripped her. A saggy T-shirt, flannel pajama pants, and—oh gosh—no bra. Her hair sat piled in a sad, lopsided knot that looked more “frazzled librarian” than “casually cute.”
“Kill me now,” she muttered, flying into her bedroom.
Shannon and Gina went to some gory movie, which Nettie hated those disgusting flicks with so much blood, guts, and gore that she ended up covering her eyes during most of it, so she thought she’d surprise Tate with some homemade buckeyes.
But now, he was surprising her!
As she quickly dressed, she shoved one arm through the shirt sleeve, while that hand reached for a perfume bottle. She didn’t want him to see her at her worst, and after a long day, running to the grocery, and just everything… she had thought to rest tonight.
Wrong.
The bathroom mirror was brutally honest. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair a wild halo escaping its knot.
With a frustrated groan, she ripped the elastic out, dragging a brush through until it tumbled loose and shiny around her shoulders.
Lipstick—yes, lipstick would help. She swiped on her favorite shade, her hand trembling, the cherry-red color instantly transforming her tired face into something almost put together.
A sharp knock rattled the front door.
Her stomach plunged.
“Coming!” Nettie called, her voice pitched higher than normal as she shoved the brush back onto the counter and bolted for the door. She gave the living room one last frantic scan—pillows straight, blanket folded, no socks in sight—before yanking it open.
And suddenly, she was airborne.
Tate had swept her into his arms, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around like she weighed nothing. The world blurred—flowers on the table, the glow of the lamp, the sound of her own startled laugh—before he set her back down gently, his grin lighting up his whole face.
“Hi,” she breathed, dizzy and giddy.
“Sorry,” he chuckled, sheepish yet incandescent. “I’m excited… this is insane.”
“You have no idea,” she murmured, marveling at him. His eyes sparkled, his shoulders looked broader somehow, and that smile… Gosh, that smile could undo her in a second.
“I should go,” he said hesitantly, as though catching himself. “I’m sure you are busy, but I just wanted…”
“Tate,” she interrupted quickly, afraid he might actually leave. She shook her head, staring at him in wonder. “Come in. I was just making some buckeyes for myself and…”
“And me?” he asked, his expression softening in a way that made her pulse stutter.
“Maybe?” she teased, cheeks heating as she laughed awkwardly, waving her hand as if to brush it off. “Let’s not make this weird. Friends, right?”
“Exactly,” he said with almost too much brightness, his voice riding the edge of something unsteady. “You don’t mind me coming over?”
“Not at all. Come on, and I’ll pour us some coffee.”
“Could I help you?”
“You want to help me make the buckeyes?” she asked, incredulous.
“Sure. Why not?”
She walked toward the kitchen, and Tate followed her, shutting the door behind him. She heard his footsteps, felt his presence, and marveled at how suddenly small her house was with him in it.
“How’s Mulligan?”
“Into everything,” he volunteered simply. “He’s discovered the joy of unrolling the toilet paper and shredding it all over the bathroom floor.”
“Oh noo…”
“Yep. It’s like having a child around. I have to pick up everything and partition off stuff just to keep him safe.”
Nettie was pulling two cups from the cabinet – and nearly dropped them at the thought of Tate and children. Would they have his beautiful dark eyes, his slightly wavy hair? What would he be like as a father? He was wonderful with Mulligan and…
“Do you ever think about children of your own someday?” he said suddenly, his voice quiet as his eyes studied her. “I know we fight a lot, but we don’t talk nearly enough, and thinking of Mulligan made me want to ask you.”
“I love children,” she whispered, staring up at him and realizing that the tiny house was now moving to a miniscule size. “Sugar?”
“Please,” he nodded.
“I’d always hoped someday that I would have children,” she continued, feeling the need to answer his question even if it meant bringing it up again. “What about you? Do you ever think about children?”
“I never did until recently.”
Ohhhh, she thought nervously, and her trembling hand was sprinkling the sugar into his cup and on the counter as it shook.
“And now?” she croaked.
“I could see it someday. You?”
“I could see it someday,” she repeated, trying to play it cool instead of screaming ‘I want your baby’ or ‘take me’…
No, no. This would not be the correct time to let her ‘hussy-flag-fly’.
According to him, they weren’t dating – and she kept claiming she wanted friendship.
And silently cursed the corner she’d backed herself into mentally.
Nettie swore her knees might buckle at any second. Tate’s voice had dropped low, softer than she’d ever heard it, a private kind of tone that wrapped around her like a secret only meant for the two of them.
“I can’t wait for you to see me play Friday…” he said softly, his hand brushing against the small of her back where he’d stepped close. The touch was nothing more than a press of his palm, the heat of him warming through the thin fabric of her shirt, but it lit her skin like fire.
Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Play it cool, Nettie. Breathe. Don’t sway. Don’t faint. Don’t act like this is the literal highlight of your existence.
“I can’t either,” she murmured, hoping her voice didn’t crack under the weight of her own nerves.
She turned slightly, reaching to hand him his cup, desperate for a distraction, but he caught her off guard.
His fingers brushed hers, firm but gentle, as he took it straight out of her hands and set it aside on the counter without breaking eye contact.
The world stilled. Even the humming of the refrigerator and the ticking clock seemed to vanish. It was just him—his dark gaze fixed on hers, his nearness pressing down on her chest until she could barely breathe.
“Can we talk for a moment?” he began, his voice steady and yet uncertain in the way a man sounded when he wasn’t sure what the answer would be.
She nodded, maybe too quickly, like some goofy bobblehead figurine, and cursed herself for it. Smooth. Really smooth.
“Were you upset that I kissed your cheek the other night?”
Her heart practically catapulted into her throat. Upset? Did he not know what that single brush of his lips had done to her? She had relived it—over and over again—every night since.
“Upset, no…” she managed.
“No?” His head tilted, his voice dipping lower.
Nettie nearly dropped to the floor when his hand suddenly lifted, cupping the side of her neck. His palm was warm, steady, grounding her even as her heart tried to bolt right out of her chest. His thumb stroked the edge of her jawline, the tenderest of touches that made her breath catch.
“I was…” he murmured softly.
“You were?” Her voice was barely a squeak, trembling with disbelief.