Chapter Eleven Jordan
Chapter Eleven
Jordan
“Your scotch, Mr. Worthington.” The waitress placed a tumbler with a large square block of ice on the table, the only way I liked to drink it when I came to our arena.
“And your vodka soda, Mr. Worthington,” she said to my brother, who sat next to me on the couch in the owner’s suite, the glass full of booze now in front of him.
“Taking it easy tonight?” I asked Gavin.
“If I was taking it easy, I wouldn’t be drinking at all.” He clinked his glass against mine and took a sip.
“I’m just surprised you didn’t go for scotch, considering there’s a fresh bottle of Macallan up there.” I pointed at our private bar, which was stocked with anything and everything we’d ever want for us and our guests.
He crossed his legs, his khakis lifting at his ankles, showing off socks that had the Bears logo on them. “I’m in the mood to switch it up. Like you . . . when it comes to women.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You and Maya, that’s what I mean. You’re doing something you’ve never done before, like drinking her up every chance you get. So I’m drinking vodka, like I never do—tonight.”
I grabbed his ankle and shook it. “If you’re trying to make a point, you could have just made it and stopped with the bullshit.”
“But it’s more fun this way.” The cocky son of a bitch smiled.
“I’m assuming the talk with her went well, or you’d be wearing a full-on scowl instead of the half a one you’re wearing now.
And you’d be a fucking asshole—which you are, don’t get me wrong, but tonight is average asshole, not more than usual. ”
I flipped him off. “That’s for you.” I took a drink. “As for Maya”—I inhaled a breath—“I haven’t had that talk with her yet.”
He turned toward me. “What the hell are you waiting for?”
“The right time.”
“Don’t you run with her every morning?”
My foot hadn’t stopped tapping the carpet. “Yeah.”
“You’re playing with fire, my man.” He looked at me like I’d just told him I no longer wanted to buy the Clovers.
I guess I somewhat deserved that look.
Every time I met Maya for a run, I told myself I would say something to her. During each mile, I’d debate the different ways I could slide it into our conversation. And once I got back home, I’d be pissed at myself for not saying anything.
But goddamn it, I liked the way things were. The possibility of fucking that up didn’t sit right with me.
“It’ll be fine,” I told him.
“I don’t know how the hell you’re convincing yourself of that when we both know it’s not going to be fine.”
“The last two nights she’s worked, and this evening she’s out with her best friend. I’ll be with her tomorrow night. Maybe I’ll bring it up.”
“Maybe?” He shook his head. “Listen to yourself.”
“I don’t need to listen. I know what I’m saying.”
“Do you?” He ran his hands down his pant legs. “Because you know her schedule and you sound excited to see her . . . two things that are so unlike your past—which makes me even more worried for you.”
“Stop worrying.”
“Why? You’re telling me you have everything under control when we both know you don’t.”
Ignoring his comment, I pulled out my phone to see if she had replied to the text I’d sent on my way here, telling her to have a good time with Emily.
A text I’d never sent to any other woman.
My brother wasn’t wrong; this wasn’t typically me. But I certainly wasn’t going to verbally confirm that.
Maya: Except there’s one problem. I’m missing you.
“Fuck me, I was right,” Gavin expressed. “You’re so far from having things under control, your dick is probably hard just looking at her text.”
I set my phone in my lap. “How do you know she texted me?”
“I can see it all over your goddamn face.”
“Guys, the staff needs you downstairs in about twenty minutes,” our assistant, Carrie, said, poking her head through the doorway of our suite. “Are you going to stop in the locker room first?”
“Yes,” I replied for the both of us.
“I’ll meet you by the private elevator, then.” She shut the door behind her.
“You need to put out this fire. Immediately,” Gavin warned as we stood from the couch. When I didn’t say anything, he added, “Do you hear me? This is serious, Jordan.”
Instead of replying, I lifted my phone and began to type.
Me: No more thirteen-hour shifts.
Maya: Nope.
Me: You’re all mine.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and opened the door for my brother. “Yes. I hear you.”
“Do you really?” He walked out. “Because I get the sense you’re thinking with everything but your brain.”
We met our assistant in the hallway, where she was waiting by the private elevator. Her hair always grabbed my attention, a mane of blond springs she attempted to tame but had a mind of their own.
“My brain says you need to relax,” I told him.
“Why don’t you ask Carrie’s opinion?” Gavin clasped my shoulder. “I’m in a two-against-one kind of mood.”
Carrie had worked for us for four years. Her NDA was so ironclad, we could say anything we wanted in front of her. And we did.
I held the elevator for her and my brother before I stepped in after them. “It’s funny—he calls me the asshole, but I think it’s a title we both share.”
“Are you asking my opinion?” Carrie smiled as she tucked a curl behind her ear.
“Yes,” I replied.
“No,” Gavin countered.
“I’m an only child,” she said. “I can’t relate to the dynamics between you two, but I can tell you it’s fascinating to watch.” She hit the button for the first floor.
I leaned back against the wall, my eyes closing as the elevator lowered.
“Before you put me in the middle of whatever you two have going on, I need you out of the locker room in twelve minutes.”
“No problem,” Gavin uttered. “But we may have to drag this one out.”
I opened my eyes to see he was pointing at me. “This guy,” I groaned.
“Listen, we know how much you miss hockey. How you wish you were suited up tonight and going out on that ice to play against your home team in your favorite arena—”
“Don’t start with this.”
“It’s the truth, Jordan. I’m no different. I’d still like to be on the football field. And I know how being in that locker room will only make that feeling stronger, the same way it would do to me.”
He wasn’t wrong.
I’d do anything to be on the ice again. My team, New York, playing Boston, like they were tonight, was a matchup I’d fucking lived for during every season.
But my body didn’t agree.
So I’d helped them win the Stanley Cup and retired before an injury forced me to make that decision.
That didn’t mean I was happy about it. That also didn’t mean I was miserable as the chief marketing officer of Worthington Enterprises.
But all I knew was hockey, and it was no longer a part of me in the way I really wanted.
“Twelve minutes will be just fine,” I told them.
Because after the game, I’d be right back in the locker room, hanging with the fellas until they headed to the airport to fly to Manhattan.
The door to the elevator opened, and we walked down the hallway toward the Bears’ locker room.
“Tell them I said good luck,” I said to Gavin.
“Will do,” he replied, and he disappeared inside Boston’s locker room.
“I’m going to wait for you out here,” Carrie said when we’d reached the guest team’s locker room. “If you’re not out in”—she looked at her watch—“eleven minutes, I’ll call you.”
“All right.”
I sucked in a deep breath and opened the guest team’s door, immediately hit with the smell that had haunted me since I was a kid.
A smell I no longer had in my life, but one I fucking loved.
It was raw sweat, baked into the pads and the equipment of the players, and no matter how many times it was washed, the odor wouldn’t leave.
“About fucking time you joined us,” I heard.
I connected the voice to my old goalie, who was making his way toward me as the other guys yelled, “Jordan-fucking-Worthington!” in unison.
“My man!” another shouted. “We were hoping your corporate ass wasn’t going to be too busy to come.”
“And miss an opportunity to give you all shit?” I chuckled. “Never.”
There were so many faces looking back at me. Dudes I’d spent years of my career with, at least the ones who hadn’t retired or been traded—and they were all in different states of putting on their equipment and getting dressed, which didn’t stop them from coming over to greet me.
“It’s good to see you, Jordan.” My old goalie came in for a man-hug, slapping me on the back of my shoulder.
“You, too, bud,” I replied. “Feeling good about tonight?” I shook hands with some of the newer players as they approached.
“Against Boston?” He licked his lips like he was trying to charm some chick. “We’re going to fucking crush those Bears, and you know it.”
My old forward said, “Don’t even tell me you’re all Boston now?” He patted my back. “Because I don’t give a fuck what team you own—you’ve got New York blood in those veins.”
“He’s right about that. You’re New York through and through,” Coach said, a man who had guided and mentored me my entire tenure in New York. Once he was close enough, he hugged me. “You’ve been missed, Jordan,” he said, only loud enough for me to hear before he pulled away.
In the same tone, I whispered, “You have no idea how much I miss you and the team, Coach.”