6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Celeste
Tate is nothing as I expected.
His nightly routine of coffee, burger, and chips should’ve been my first clue that he doesn’t fit neatly into any box. But his idea of “dating” me, showing up at The Retro Rooster while I work, no expectations, no pressure, is a whole different level of strange.
And somehow… it works.
I should’ve said no. I tried to, more than once. But Tate has this way of making space rather than making demands. He never rushes me. Never asks questions I’m not ready to answer. He just shows up, steady, familiar, consistent, like he’s proving something without ever saying it out loud.
He’s charming in that effortless, gentle giant kind of way; in small, quiet actions, holding doors, thanking the cooks by name, making sure his tip is always generous.
And of course, there’s the way he looks: blond hair the color of soft summer sunlight, blue eyes that remind me of the frozen lake I used to skate on as a kid, and a smile that sneaks up on you when you least expect it and twists all of my insides.
But he doesn’t know me.
Not really.
To him, I’m just the girl who pours his coffee.
He doesn’t know I’m a mom to a five-year-old.
He doesn’t know that Rowen’s diabetes controls every part of my life: the alarms, the schedules, the constant math running through my head.
He doesn’t know that Brett is Rowen’s father.
That I’ve begged him, more than once, to help cover insulin when insurance fell short.
Tate knows nothing, and I want to keep it that way.
These cute little coffee dates are fine, but I can’t let it go past that.
The thought drags me back to that night.
The night Tate finally saw more than the surface.
I’d been asking Brett for help for weeks.
Rowen’s insulin supply was running low, and even with insurance, it’s expensive.
I had already picked up as many shifts as I could, but with my internship and school, and being a single mom, it’s hard to squeeze in extra hours.
When Brett finally agreed to meet me, I chose the diner on purpose. Public. Familiar. Safe.
I was right to do that.
He told me he’d give me the money, but only if I slept with him.
The words still make my stomach turn sour.
I told him he’d lost his mind. That I would work three jobs, ruin my body, burn myself into the ground before I ever let him touch me again. That Rowen deserved better than a father who treated his existence like leverage.
That’s when Brett snapped.
The names came first. Every cruel word he could think of. Then the accusations that I ruined his life, trapped him, and embarrassed him. And when I finally turned away, when I tried to leave, that’s when his hand closed around my arm.
Hard.
I hadn’t seen him that angry in years.
And I don’t know what would’ve happened if Tate hadn’t come outside.
I don’t like thinking about it.
Even now, days later, the memory makes my chest tighten. The markings from his finger are slowly fading from purple to yellow, a physical reminder of who Brett is.
I’m grateful Tate stepped in, more grateful than I ever said out loud, but gratitude doesn’t erase fear. It doesn’t magically make me ready to let someone see all the broken, complicated parts of my life.
And yet…
Every time Tate sits in that booth or at his spot at the counter, he looks at me like I matter, even when I’m exhausted or a mess, and it softens something inside of me.
Just a little.
Enough to scare me.
The next day, Tate shows up with flowers.
Not roses. Nothing dramatic or over-the-top. Just a small bundle of wildflowers wrapped in brown paper, like he passed a stand on the side of the road and thought of me.
He sets them on the counter like he’s not entirely sure what to do with his hands afterward. “For you,” he says.
I blink at them, caught off guard in a way I’m not used to. “You didn’t have to do that.” But the smile I can feel spread across my face, hopefully, shows how touched I am by his gesture.
I don’t even remember the last time I’ve been given flowers by someone. Well, of course, besides Rowen, anytime he sees a dandelion, he picks it and gives it right to me. I hope I raise him to be the kind of man who buys his partner flowers.
“I know,” he says. “I wanted to.” Tate smiles at me, it’s soft and warm. He has a beautiful set of teeth and perfectly sized lips.
It’s a slow night. One of those rare ones where the world seems to exhale with us. I was cut early tonight due to how slow it is. When I clocked out, the diner was quiet except for the hum of the lights and the occasional clink of dishes from the kitchen.
Tate doesn’t rush me. He never does, even when he comes in on busy nights, always reminding me to take my time with his order.
He waits, elbows on the counter, watching me like he has all the time in the world. His blue eyes just shift with every move I make.
“You hungry?” he asks when I finally untie my apron and walk from around the diner bar.
I smile despite myself. “Always.”
We sit in his booth, sharing chips and talking about nothing and everything. The diner feels smaller with just the two of us in it, quieter in a way that makes room for honesty. His fingers trail along the surface of the table.
“So,” Tate says, stealing one of my most perfect golden chips. “You played hockey?”
I blink. “Yeah, I did, despite my mother’s wishes. She didn’t think the day she signed me up for figure skating, I would fall in love with a man’s game.”
Tate nods his head, listening to me with a level of intent that makes me squirm a little.
I had dreams of playing in college and then at the Olympics.
Now there is even a professional women’s league, and gosh, how fucking lucky are those women who get to play at that level?
I love Rowen with everything in me, and I will never regret having him, but I often wonder what it would have been like.
“What position?” he asks, too quick, too interested, and stopping me from my trail of self-pity.
“Center,” I admit. “I was fast, had decent stick handling. And I liked making goals.” I can feel the spike of adrenaline run through memories of days out at the rink battling against the boards, hearing the sharp noise of my skates on the ice, and the horn and cheers when I sunk the puck into the net.
“That tracks,” he says, smiling. “You don’t look like someone who likes losing.”
I snort. “You have no idea.”
Something shifts then, the air between us tightening just a little, like the bubble around us is shrinking.
“Why’d you quit?” he asks, softer now.
I open my mouth to answer.
And almost tell him everything.
Because the truth is right there, pressing against my ribs. Because the words I had a baby sit heavily on my tongue. Because for a split second, I imagine saying it and not watching his expression change.
“I had to,” I say instead. “Life got… complicated.”
Tate studies me, like he knows that’s not the whole story, but instead of pushing, he just nods.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’ll do it.”
His knee brushes mine under the table, warm and grounding. “For what it’s worth,” he adds, “the fact that you loved it? That matters. It doesn’t disappear just because you stop playing.”
My throat tightens.
It shouldn’t mean this much.
But it does. I no longer really have anyone to talk about the sport I love with, well, besides Ro. He loves the sport as much as I do. When I got pregnant, all of my teammates from high school treated me like the plague; like if they got too close to me, they would somehow end up pregnant as well.
“You should come to one of my games sometime. I know you work a lot, but if you can swing a night off, I’d love to see you in the stands.” His eyes glimmer with hope, hope I don’t want to crush.“I’ll try to sometime,” is all I can say, knowing it’s never going to happen.
After we’ve finished eating, we decide to go for a walk. I quickly check over Rowen’s numbers and send a text to Suzie to see how he is doing. Of course, she said he was fine and that I should stop worrying.
The night is cold enough that our breath fogs the air, the streetlights casting everything in a soft amber glow. My hands are tucked into the sleeves of his jacket, which he offered me when we stepped out, and Tate keeps glancing down at me like he’s checking to make sure I’m real.
“You know,” he says casually, like he’s not about to undo me, “You don’t smile for just anyone.”
I glance up at him. “Is that your professional hockey player observation?”
He grins. “Absolutely. Very technical. Years of training.”
I laugh, and his eyes light up like he’s just won something.
“That one,” he says, pointing at my face. “That laugh. That’s my favorite.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks heat anyway. “You collect favorites that fast?”
“Only when something’s worth keeping,” he says easily. Then, softer, “You make people earn you. I like that.”
My steps slow without me meaning to.
“Most people don’t,” I say.
“Most people don’t pay attention,” he replies. “You’re not loud about who you are. You don’t need to be. It’s all there, if someone’s patient enough to look.”
I swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is.
For a second, I think he might kiss me.
He doesn’t. And we shouldn’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. Tate is ungodly handsome; any girl would want to kiss him and do so much more with him, myself included.
Instead, he bumps his shoulder gently into mine. “I’m glad I get to be here,” he says. “Even if it’s just walking you home.”
And somehow, that feels more intimate than anything else could have.
And that’s the most dangerous part.
Because for the first time in a long time, I let myself imagine what it would be like if I didn’t have to carry everything alone.
When we part outside my apartment, Tate smiles down at me like he’s already planning the next time.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks.
I nod before I can stop myself.
And as I watch him walk away, I realize something I probably should’ve seen coming.
I’m in trouble.
“Tate, wait,” I yell to him. He stops, and I don’t know what my plan is. I just know I want a moment longer with him. We meet in the middle.
“Yeah?” He asks.
“I… well…” before I can finish thinking of what I’m gonna say, I pull out my black booklet and scribble out my number. “Here, I know you gave me your number, but here’s mine.”
He takes the paper, and our fingers brush against one another. His face lights up like he just scored the best goal of his career. “But I need you to know something, I’m… my life is complicated. Just… don’t get your hopes up. But I could use a friend, if you’re okay with that?”
He takes a step closer, bringing his hand up to my jaw. “I already told you that this is on your terms, I’m willing to take this, take whatever you give me.” He tucks my hair behind my ear before dropping his hand.
“Good night, Celeste. I’ll text you later,” he winks at me, and fuck, it actually makes my knees go weak.