Rafe felt sick as he met Beckett’s gaze. “I have a feeling everyone’s going to know soon, whether they should or not.”
He turned into the hallway with Beckett following and used the short walk that should have been filled with triumph and excitement to shore himself up for pain—both physical and emotional. The kind of pain he suffered when he’d played a truly shitty game. Ironic he’d be subjected to it when he was playing his best.
The coach was already talking when Rafe turned into the open space outfitted for the visiting team. Rafe immediately searched for Tate and found him pacing in front of his locker space that adjoined Rafe’s. With one hand rubbing his mouth, his fingers distorting his lower lip like a cartoon character, Tate scowled at the floor as if he were contemplating setting it on fire.
“That’s the way to win battles, Rafe.” Tremblay’s words pulled Rafe’s gaze from Tate. But the coach was already redirecting his words to the team at large. “Go right at them. Simplify the game. We’ve been the better team throughout the playoffs, and we just need to hold on to it. Don’t rattle, just keep playing our game just the way you’re doing it. Nothing changes here, boys.”
Everyone offered their version of agreement in a hoot or shout or affirmative, and Tremblay turned for his office. He smacked Rafe’s shoulder on the way past. “Way to attack the net, kid.”
“Uh, yeah,” Rafe said, pulling his gaze from Tate again to glance at Tremblay, muttering a distracted “Thanks, Coach.”
His mind drifted back to Tate and what in the hell he was going to say to calm him down as he watched his coach disappear down the hall. Rafe could lie. Tate was only making an
assumption based on a look he’d seen between him and Mia. But that would only make coming out with the truth later more hurtful. More damaging.
What a cluster—
Rafe caught movement in the corner of his eye, but before he could turn his head that direction, Tate shoved Rafe against a cement block wall.
Air surged from of Rafe’s lungs. He let his helmet and stick fall to the floor but didn’t drop his gloves. The force wasn’t anything new, but force in this setting stunned him. More so because the man using Rafe’s jersey to hammer him repeatedly against the wall was his best friend. Only Tate didn’t look anything like the friend Rafe had always known. His eyes were so dark, they were almost black. His expression so tightly etched with fury, he looked a decade older. But it was the pain there that cut Rafe. A pain he had only seen hints of since Lisa walked out on Tate. One he was realizing now ran a hell of a lot deeper.
A river of regret as black and thick as tar opened down the middle of Rafe’s chest. “Tate,” he rasped, “come on, let’s talk about—”
Tate got a grip on Rafe’s shoulder pads and slammed him back so hard, Rafe’s vision blurred. Anger joined the regret inside, creating a volatile pain. Now he dropped his gloves, but he held it together. For Tate. For Joe. And for Mia.
He took a breath. “Tate—”
Tate jerked him nose to nose and with gritted teeth said, “You’re fucking her.”
The locker room went quiet. Icily, eerily silent.
All the sickness in Rafe’s gut twisted. He wanted to lie so bad, it was all he could think about. “It’s not…”. Don’t. Don’t lie. “It’s not like that.”
Tate released his jersey with one hand, and that hand landed in Rafe’s gut as a fist. His stomach clenched behind the force of it. The shock of it. All his breath rushed from his lungs on a grunt, and his eyes watered. “Shit,” he wheezed. “Tate, listen—”
“It’s either like that or it’s not. And I saw the way you looked at her.”
Another punch landed closer to his kidney. The pain buckled him, and Rafe shoved Tate back with another curse. But Tate was livid. He slammed Rafe against the lockers again and smashed a cross to Rafe’s mouth.
His head snapped sideways. Pain cut through his cheek, jaw, mouth. Blood squirted over his tongue. Again, not exactly new to Rafe. The real pain came from knowing Tate was on the delivering end. Knowing it came out of fury and hate. A deliberate intent to inflict pain. Not an adrenaline-induced burst of anger over a play.
“Hey!” Beckett’s voice came from across the room. “Knock it off.”
Everything inside Rafe surged toward fighting back. He wanted to reach for Tate’s jersey, jerk him around, pound him wherever Rafe could reach. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
All he could do was protect himself as best as he could until Tate backed off.
When Tate hauled back to take a right hook to Rafe’s face, he blocked with his hand only to catch a gut punch from Tate’s left. And when his other arm dropped automatically toward the pain, Tate’s fist was there to ram his knuckles into Rafe’s eye.
The force slammed Rafe’s head back against the concrete wall. Pain stabbed his skull. Another punch whipped his head sideways.
“Tate,” Beckett yelled, closer now. “Back off. Right now.”
Beyond that, Rafe lost track of things. His head split with pain. His gut ached. When he tried to focus, everything blurred and spun.
“What the hell is going on?” Tremblay’s booming voice rattled Rafe’s brain.
Suddenly, Tate was off him. Tierney’s voice came quiet near Rafe’s shoulder. “Are you still with us, man?”