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EIGHT

Tate

“Pass it!” Leo calls as we play a practice scrimmage preparing for the next playoff game. I fake left around Lucian, our captain, then right past Brax before firing a wrist shot that sails cleanly past our new goalie, Miles.

Miles shakes his head, obvious frustration lining his face. “It’s okay, Miles. You’ll catch the next one,” I say to him. He just joined our team after getting traded from San Antonio, and I can tell he’s got potential. He’s just not used to playing with us yet.

“I could’ve made that shot,” Leo says, catching up to me. “Why didn’t you pass?”

The truth? Leo’s kind of a puck hog, but saying that to his face will only start an argument I don’t need today.

“I had a clear path to the goal.”

“You weren’t even looking at me,” Leo argues.

“Guys,” Lucian warns with a look.

The tension from the upcoming playoffs is starting to wear us all thin.

Since Leo and I rent rooms at Rose & Thorn, we get on each other’s nerves more than the others, bickering like two siblings.

At least summer break is around the corner.

I’ll finally head to my parents’ home in California and work on my secret project in peace .

That is, if they actually want me there.

They haven’t said not to come, but they haven’t exactly asked either.

My mom’s always off on some new retreat with her friends, and my dad’s obsessed with renovating the deck again, like perfect wood planks will fix whatever's starting to splinter between them. I’ll just show up, like I always do, and pretend not to notice how much quieter it gets when I walk in.

“Your game’s off,” Brax says as I slide on my skate guards and head toward the locker room.

“I made the last shot,” I toss back over my shoulder.

“Yeah, but not because you were focused.” he says, falling into step beside me. “You’re our consistent guy—steady, unshakable. Lately, though? You’re skating like your brain’s on another planet.”

“Just the end-of-season pressure,” I say, keeping my tone casual as we head to our lockers.

Or maybe it’s the fact that Lauren keeps appearing in my mind at the worst times.

Like during drills. Or while I’m trying to sleep.

Or when I’m mid-sprint and suddenly remember the way her hair whipped behind her on that motorcycle ride, the smell of summer and her sweet tangerine shampoo branded into my mind.

Brax looks at me dubiously. “You sure this doesn’t have something to do with a certain PR manager?”

“You know Lauren’s rule,” I say, grabbing a towel. “No dating players. She’s said it at least twelve times. Usually after Rourke says something wildly inappropriate.”

Just then, Rourke strolls by, towel slung over one shoulder. “What can I say? She’s got high standards.”

Leo pipes up from the other side of the locker room. “Or maybe she’s into the strong, silent, infuriatingly logical type.” He nods at me. “You know, like our very own Sheriff.”

“Unlikely,” I reply. “Lauren likes chaos and adventure. I’m more predictable.” And predictable isn’t nearly as attractive as wild and reckless.

“Yeah, well, maybe she’s tired of chaos,” Leo says. “Maybe she wants someone who alphabetizes his socks and studies physics for kicks.”

Brax strips off his jersey before addressing the locker room. “Hey, it’s pasta night, everyone. Jaz sent out a group text.”

I reach for my phone and see the text from Jaz, plus a missed call from Dad. My stomach twists as I press play on the voicemail.

“Tate, it’s Dad. Call me when you have a few minutes. It’s important.”

My parents almost never leave messages. Lately, they’ve barely even mentioned my games, too busy living their best lives as empty nesters—taking up new hobbies, going on separate adventures—and hardly contacting me.

I know I’m busy, but it’s almost like my parents are even busier than me.

It helps that I usually go home in the summer, the only time I can focus without interruption on my secret project—the fantasy novel I started in high school.

I finished the first draft after college, but the edits have dragged out ever since.

Mostly because I still haven’t figured out how to end it.

This summer, I’d planned to finally finish the edits at my parents’ house. Query a few agents. Maybe even let someone read it so I can get some more feedback. My parents’ house is quiet and perfect for writing, unlike Rose & Thorn, and for once, I was actually looking forward to the visit.

I shake off the uneasy feeling, head to the showers, and call them on my way home.

“Hi, Tate,” Mom answers. I hear her muffle the receiver with her hand as she calls out, “Ed, it’s Tate on the phone. Do you want to get on the other line?”

“Is everything okay?” I ask. They rarely call me together.

“Everything is fine,” she says, but something about her tone is off.

“Tate.” Dad’s voice comes through the other line. “How’s it going?”

“Playoffs are going well,” I say. “We’ve got a real shot at winning this year, especially with the new coach. And after the season, I was planning to come home for a couple weeks, like usual.”

A silence stretches longer than normal, tipping me off that I’m not going to like what’s coming next.

“That’s actually what we wanted to talk to you about,” Mom says hesitantly. “Ed?”

“This might come as a surprise,” Dad says carefully, “but we’ve decided to give each other some space this summer.”

“Space?” I repeat, not understanding.

“Your mom and I”—Dad lets out a sigh—“are separating.”

I freeze, my mind reeling, replaying what I just heard. “You won’t be living together?”

“I’ll be staying with Aunt Nancy,” Dad says.

I blink. “Aunt Nancy…with her four cats?”

“She offered, and I need somewhere temporary,” Dad says. “We’re renting out the house for the summer.”

“Wait—what? You’re renting out the house? Without telling me?”

“And I’ll be visiting my cousin in Florida,” Mom says quickly. “Until we decide next steps.”

“I don’t understand.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to organize my thoughts. “Every relationship has problems. What makes this one unmanageable compared to the previous twenty-nine and a half years?”

“It’s been coming for a while,” Mom says quietly. “We’ve just been…avoiding it.”

“And you picked this summer to deal with it?” I ask. “Knowing I already had a plan. You didn’t think I should know sooner?”

“It’s not about you, Tate,” Dad says.

That’s the part that stings the most. Because they’re right—and also wrong. They made this decision, rearranged their entire summer, and not once did it occur to them to loop me in .

“We need some time to work things out,” Mom says, her voice strained. “We’ve tried, Tate. Really. ”

“Have you tried counseling or family therapy?” I ask. “Most couples would consider thirty years of marriage significant.”

“We’re not quitting,” Dad says, his voice low. “It’s about stepping back and figuring things out. A trial period.”

“A trial period based on what?” I ask, my logical mind trying to grasp on to something concrete. “Because from where I’m sitting, this sounds like an impulsive decision.” I lean back in the driver’s seat outside Rose & Thorn, my stomach sinking.

“I’m sorry, Tate. We didn’t think you’d want to be caught in the middle,” Mom says gently, like that makes it better. Like avoiding the fallout makes it easier to watch everything collapse.

I exhale slowly, trying to keep my voice even. “You’re right, I don’t.”

The only plan I had this summer was to come home. Work on my book. And just like that, home becomes a variable instead of a constant. I hate variables.

There’s another pause. Then Mom tries to sound upbeat. “Maybe this is the summer for you to do something different.”

Right. As if I can snap my fingers and rearrange my entire summer without proper planning. “I need to go,” I say.

“Tate—” Mom starts, but I’ve already hit End.

I place my phone in my bag and rest my forehead against the steering wheel.

My parents are separating.

I don’t even know how to process that. They were the system I relied on, the constant in my equation, the ones who made me believe that long-term relationships could be stable and predictable.

If love doesn’t last—if even the most solid couple I know can fall apart—then what exactly can you count on?

I hate when the equation doesn’t balance. I’m wired for routine, for things that make sense .

But now? Nothing does.

I have no home.

No summer plan.

And no idea what I’m supposed to do next.