Chapter Twelve Maya
Chapter Twelve
Maya
“I’m buying,” Emily said as we stood in line at one of the kiosks inside the Bears’ arena. “What do you want to drink?”
I laughed at my best friend. “No, Bettie is buying.” I took the hundred-dollar bill out of my pocket and handed it to her. “Can you believe that little sneak somehow stuck this in my scrubs without me knowing?”
Her eyes widened as she took the money. “Are you sure it was Bettie?”
“Who else would it have been? She gave us tickets to the game. She probably wanted to cover our drinks and food too.”
Emily pointed at the large menu above the window of the kiosk. “With those prices, we’re either eating or drinking. I don’t think a hundred dollars is enough to cover both.”
I hadn’t noticed the menu before she’d said something and pointed. The amount next to each item was completely obscene. “Who charges twenty-five dollars for a beer?” I rolled my eyes. “Ugh. Thieves.”
She sighed. “Right?”
“An arena in downtown Boston owned by some corporate assholes who have more money than God, that’s who. And they can get away with it because, hello, it’s hockey, and who doesn’t come here hungry and thirsty?”
Emily giggled. “Twenty-two dollars for a hot dog. I honestly can’t even right now. That hot dog better vibrate the whole way down my throat.”
I nudged her and laughed, feeling a vibration in my pocket that wasn’t coming from a hot dog. I pulled out my phone and read the screen.
Jordan: You’re all mine.
Because I wasn’t scheduled for any more thirteen-hour shifts because I was now back to my normal hours.
Which made me . . . all his.
For just a moment, I closed my eyes and took in as much air as my lungs would hold, and then I opened my eyes and tilted the phone toward Emily. “Look at this.”
“Three words have never looked hotter.”
I moaned. “I know.”
“God, he’s perfect.”
I tucked the phone back into my pocket. “He does kinda seem that way, doesn’t he?”
“Did you tell him you’re at tonight’s game, becoming a pro on all things hockey?”
We moved ahead a spot so there were now only a few people in front of us.
“Nope. I’m going to surprise him with some hockey lingo during our run tomorrow.
” I wasn’t sure why, but my brain returned to the conversation I’d had with Bettie and Emily.
“You know, Bettie asked if Jordan played for the Bears, and I told her that he didn’t play professionally, but I don’t actually know if that’s true.
Of course, I don’t think he does, but he never really told me what he does for a living.
He only said that it’s boring and a corporate position—but what does that even mean?
And I don’t know if he played in college either. I just know that he played a lot.”
“You guys are still getting to know each other. Besides, whatever he does, I get the feeling it’s important.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because sexy, dominant men—like you’ve told me he is—have jobs where they’re required to take charge and be all alpha, and they don’t like listening to anyone.”
“He hates listening.”
“Exactly. Because he’s the boss.”
“But the boss of what?” I checked our placement in line.
She shrugged. “At the moment, your vag. He’s bossing it like it’s his employee.”
“Oh my God, Emily.”
“What? I’m wrong?”
I let out a long breath. “No. He definitely is, and he definitely gives off that alpha, dominant-boss vibe.”
“I need to find myself a Jordan.” She looped her arm through mine. “Someone who will take me under a bridge because he simply can’t wait to have me.”
I smiled as I remembered both memories. “Yes, you do.”
We reached the register and placed our beer orders, and Emily handed over the hundred-dollar bill only to find out that the arena was cashless and wouldn’t take the money. So she dug through her pocket until she found her credit card.
“Expensive and bougie as fuck,” she whispered to me.
“Amen.”
We grabbed our beers, and once we arrived at section 115, we walked through the short tunnel and were greeted by an usher who stood near the start of the seats.
“Can I please see your tickets?” he asked.
I loaded them onto the screen and showed him my phone.
“You’re directly in front of the glass,” he said.
I looked at Emily and back at him. “What does that mean?”
He laughed. “That’s the front row.”
“The front row?” Emily said. “Whoa, baby.”
“Follow the stairs to the bottom, and you’re the first two seats on the right,” he said.
“Bettie wasn’t kidding. This is center ice,” Emily replied. “Damn.” I had just reached the end of the stairs and was taking a seat when she added, “To have seats like this, Bettie must be a boss bitch.”
“She must be.”
“Do we know anything about her?”
I shook my head. “Just her first and last name, which didn’t ring any bells when I read them on her chart.”
It appeared as though the players had been warming up and were now leaving the ice.
The music was blasting throughout the arena, the large screens showing the faces of the players as they skated off.
Since I’d only ever seen this place from the outside, I took a long look around.
I couldn’t believe how massive it was inside, that there were four tiers of seats, and how intensely I could feel the energy and buzz pulsing through me.
I took out my phone to type a reply to Jordan’s last text.
Me: What exactly does being yours entail?
“I’ve never been this close to anything in my life,” Emily said. “We’ll be able to see everything. Can you imagine if they get hit right in front of us? This is going to be so exciting!”
She wasn’t joking. Only a few inches and a thin layer of plexiglass separated us from where they’d be playing. Not only would we be able to see everything, but we could hear everything too.
“I really hope no one gets hurt,” I admitted. “If it happens right in front of me—like it has the potential to—I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself from running out there and helping.”
Emily laughed. “Only you.”
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same. You’d give CPR to a bird if it fell to the ground in front of you.”
“You might be right about that.” She rested her head on my shoulder. “But they have more medical staff back there than we have in our whole facility. I assure you, they don’t need us.”
As she lifted her head, Jordan’s reply came in.
Jordan: You’re mine whenever I want. However I want.
Me: What about what I want?
Jordan: You’re getting that.
Me: How?
Jordan: You have me.
Me: And by having you, what does that mean?
Jordan: It means that the man who doesn’t date—now dates.
Me: Ha!
Me: I know you’re allergic to the term boyfriend, but it does sound like it’s a title you’re suddenly earning.
Jordan: It does sound that way . . .
Me: Are you shivering? Breaking out in hives? Doubled over, unable to breathe, having a panic attack?
Jordan: No. I’m hard, thinking about all the different ways I’m going to fuck you tomorrow night.
Me: First, where are you going to take me out on a date . . . boyfriend?
Jordan: That’s a surprise.
The lights dimmed and a spotlight shone over one side of the ice, where a door opened and a red carpet was rolled out. The music quieted, eventually turning silent as two men and a woman walked down the red carpet and stood at the end of it, the spotlight now directly over them.
“Oh, it’s starting,” Emily sang.
An announcer came over the loudspeaker: “On behalf of the Boston Bears and the Worthington family, we want to thank you for attending tonight’s game.
Before the game gets started, we would like to bring your attention to an organization we’re proud to support.
The ECC is a nonprofit dedicated to ending childhood cancer.
When the Worthington family heard of their efforts, they promised that for five home games, the proceeds of the fifty-fifty raffle would be donated to the organization, and the Worthingtons would personally match every dollar that was raised.
The Worthington family and the Boston Bears are proud to announce that the raffle generated seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
With the family’s match, another seven hundred and fifty thousand will be given, totaling one-point-five million dollars. ”
“Can you imagine having that much money to donate to charities?” Emily whispered.
“No, I cannot, but that would be a dream.”
Two men came through the door and walked down the red carpet. Although their backs were facing me, I could see that one was holding an oversize check, the kind that lottery winners always posed with.
“Brothers Gavin and Jordan Worthington will be presenting the ECC with the one-point-five-million-dollar donation this evening.”
Jordan, I thought. Now that’s an interesting coincidence. I can’t get this man out of my head, and I can’t stop hearing his name.
The check was handed to the three people at the end of the carpet, and the Worthington family seemed to be shaking their hands. A photographer was nearby to capture the moment, and a cameraman was there as well to project the live feed onto all the screens in the arena.
But the more I stared, the more I realized I couldn’t look away from what was happening.
There was something achingly familiar about one of the brothers.
Maybe it was his posture. His broadness.
The way his butt looked in the pants that hugged both sides of his ass.
Or maybe it was the ash-brown hair, cut in a way I recognized.
Or maybe it was all in my head and there was nothing familiar about him at all.
I was still unable to see their faces when the dark-haired brother was given a microphone and said, “On behalf of my father, Jordan, and myself, we hope this amount will help end childhood cancer. Thank you for all your hard work and dedication to this cause.”
The two brothers turned toward the camera so the group could take a photo together, and that was when the air got stuck in my throat.
When I could no longer inhale or exhale.
When I grabbed Emily’s arm and slid to the end of the seat to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.
It couldn’t be him.
There was no way.
I didn’t believe it.
I didn’t want to believe it.
But damn it, it was.
And he wasn’t just Jordan.
He was Jordan Worthington.
An owner of this arena. Of the Bears. Of half of Boston—maybe more.
Not that boring. It’s more of a . . . corporate position.
How could he say that to me?
How could he hide who he was?
How could he hold back something like this?
“Why do you look like you’re watching a psychological thriller and the twist is about to unfold in front of you?” Emily asked.
“Because I am.”
“Huh?”
I slowly looked at her. “Do you see the tall, muscular guy on the right with ashy-brown hair?”
“Mm-hmm. He’s delicious.”
I took a painfully deep breath. “That’s Jordan.”
“What?” she gasped.
“Yep.”
“As in Jordan Jordan? As in under-the-bridge-sex Jordan?”
My jaw clenched. “Yep.”
Her fingers found my leg and squeezed. “Oh fuck.”