Chapter 5 – Jordan
FIVE
JORDAN
“How’s your knee?” The next day, Sutton and I slow to a jog, our pace gradually decreasing to a walk as we turn the corner into downtown Bensen.
“Like I didn’t have two ACL and meniscus surgeries.” Her tone is full of sarcasm, but the shifting color in her hazel eyes expose her longing to be playing again. It’s been two years since she hung up her skates after a second round of surgeries.
Jealousy suffocates my sympathy. At least she had the opportunity to make a comeback and continue playing. At least she was afforded the luxury to make the decision for herself.
My eyes fall to the marred skin on her upper thigh, half the scar from where she took a blade to the leg exposed from under her loose running shorts.
Guilt uncurls jealousy’s grasp. I’m a terrible…horrible friend.
What happened to Sutton is devastating—any injury, any loss like that is—and here I am wishing we could switch positions, being hypercritical of her recovery, thinking how I would’ve done it better, never given up.
“Everything okay?” she asks, hand brushing my shoulder.
I tip my chin in her direction. “Just thinking.”
“About anything good?”
“Potentially.”
We resume walking, excitement sparks throughout her features, brows raising with curiosity and nose scrunching while her cheeks pinken. She stays silent though, understanding that when I’m ready to share I will.
Friendships have always been like petals on a flower for me—they like me, they like me not. I’ve plucked my fair share of flowers only to watch petals (friends) catch in the wind.
But not Sutton.
Sutton Davis and I have been friends since the day her parents adopted her and she showed up next door in strawberry print overalls, curly hair in pigtails.
When she initially got hurt in high school, she blamed my brother and it shattered their friendship.
The more he tried to insert himself back into her life, the more annoyed she became with him… and me, I assumed.
Collateral damage, that’s what I convinced myself I was.
Weren’t we only friends because of my brother and familial proximity? That’s why most people were my friends.
Our dynamic changed, but Sutton never stopped being a friend.
Even now, forgiving and falling in love with Cooper aside, she’s still one of the closest people in my life.
Took Xanie and me under her wing freshman year, always extending an invitation to girls’ nights, wearing my jersey at games, adding my class schedule to her meticulous color-coded calendar, or simply sending a quick text to check in.
That’s how we ended up on a run, and because we both share a caffeine addiction, grabbing a coffee.
Sutton shakes out her ponytail, auburn curls cascading down her back, before she reties up half of them into a messy bun. Two loose tendrils frame her freckled face.
We walk four blocks at a lazy pace, as she catches me up on her summer interning with Team USA. Half the scientific words going over my head as I open the door to my favorite coffee shop near campus, The Mean Bean. It’s also where I spent the summer working.
The bustling cafe is flooded with students back on campus. Just last week, this time was practically a ghost town. A few regulars and a mom group inundate the place with strollers, little ones clutching their fingers to run around the place, and the stickiest tables ever.
“Bay window. They’re leaving.” Sutton gestures to the best seat in the place. A glorified reading nook nestled in the cafe’s storefront. Always dunked in hazy rays and warmth, it’s even better in the winter. “Grab me a dirty chai?”
“Iced?”
“Please.”
She stalks the booth, and by her body language, I can see her offering to clear the table for the elderly couple getting up. Maybe she’s the sunshine that fills the booth.
I’m heading to get in line when Elliot, Sutton’s roommate and best friend, waves me over to her. She wraps an arm around me, pulling me into a side hug.
“No hugs back?” she teases.
“Maybe if you didn’t bail on our run this morning.”
“Elliot Jones,” she speaks in third person—sometimes a lot, “does not run. Do I look like I run?”
“You’re a fitness instructor,” I deadpan.
She holds up a pointer finger, a dark, well-taken care of brow arches.
“There is a difference. Cycling and Pilates do not require Elliot to overexert herself with meaningless cardio. Go on a walk to see nature, and wake up before the sun for a medal and a banana? No, thank you. I can buy a banana at the store. It’s called beauty sleep for a reason. ”
“Cycling is cardio.”
“Fun cardio. There’s a dif—”
“Difference,” I finish her sentence for her.
“Precisely.” She smiles big, playfully tugging at the end of one of my braids. She’s the happiest, go with the flow person I know…besides Jaxon.
Golden blonde hair swishes against her matching purple workout set as she bounces up a spot.
Elliot dresses in bright colors and patterns; her closet is the rainbow.
Standing next to each other, we probably look like Glinda and Elphaba.
Both my shorts and tank top are black, and my sneakers are a shocking gray and black.
We’re next in line, stepping up and trading cordial how are yous before ordering.
“Decaf—hmm.” Elliot squints at the specials board.
Rising one heel then the other, she’s never been able to stay still for long.
“Can you make the cereal milk latte decaf?” She fires off another question, “And make it less sweet? Or sugar-free? I’m trying to watch my sugar intake after surviving all summer on ice cream and popsicles. ”
Rose, one of the baristas, gives her the kindest could-you-please-hurry-up-and-order smile, the line behind us steadily growing. “Yes,” she answers plainly.
“I like it with half the lavender syrup and add cinnamon,” I interject, stepping to Elliot’s side.
As the semi-creator of the latte, I’ve tried it almost every possible way.
It was my idea, but Xanie suggested it during a staff meeting back in June after finding me one morning using leftover almond milk from my cereal to make coffee.
We’d ran out of creamer, and I can’t possibly drink coffee black.
“Macadamia milk is better than almond or oat.”
“Oooh! I’ll do that, but decaf, please. What do you want, Jor?”
“The same.” Elliot pulls out her card to pay. I try to offer, but she swats my hand away. “Full caffeine for me.”
Rose gives me a knowing nod, already ringing it up with an extra shot and my staff discount. Elliot tips, exclaiming, “I love that you work here,” before excusing herself to the bathroom to wash her hands.
I wait for our drinks, scrolling social media when a message notification drops from the top of the screen.
Luka
It’s been a week, Jordan. Come on.
Then another.
Luka
I’ll apologize if that’s what you want.
If that’s what I want? He thinks I want an apology?
We’re past that.
I always thought I wanted a man to beg for my attention, but not like this. Not nonstop spurts of one-sided texts that I’ve happily left unanswered. Luka hasn’t let up all week which is why I’m minorly shocked when my phone doesn’t immediately vibrate with another text.
Elliot leans over my shoulder to read the texts. “Fuck that guy.”
“Unfortunately, I did. Too many times.”
At least Elliot placates me with a faux laugh, followed by a story of him hitting on her last season during one of the guys’ games. I already knew about this though. Cooper lovingly reminded me about my dickhead ex after the game.
“I didn’t flirt back,” she clarifies, following me to the table with our drinks in tow.
“It would’ve been fine if you did. We’d been broken up for months by then.”
“Still.” She pauses, leveling me with a look. “It’s girl code, and we’re friends.” When I don’t say anything, she adds, “Right?”
“We’re friends.” I slide Sutton the thrifted glass cup, a metal straw circles the rim. “I asked for light ice since you’ll be sipping on that till tomorrow.”
Her cheeks rise appreciatively up at me, drawing out a, “Thank you.”
I scoot into the seat in the window, resting one foot on the cushion. I take a sip of my latte when my shock wears off.
Luka
I miss you.
I roll my eyes at the text.
“Him, again?” Elliot asks me, turning to face Sutton. “He’s texting Jordan.”
Sutton leans forward, eyes staring right into mine. “You aren’t seeing him again, are you?” I shake my head no, scratching the back of my neck. “Jordan Margaret…”
“You hooked up!” Elliot gasps, jaw open.
“What? No,” I try to deny it except my movements are tight and clunky. I almost spill my coffee reaching for it.
“You totally did.”
“A week ago, and it was terrible. Trust me.”
“Phone.”
“What?”
“Give me your phone,” Sutton demands. Reluctantly, I drop it into her outstretched palm.
Elliot and Sutton huddle together. I watch them scroll back, not caring how much they read, matching baffled expressions on their faces.
“I miss you?” Sutton snorts an annoyed exhale, reading another text aloud.
“Does he realize how narcissistic these come off?”
I shrug, probably not.
“Here. Gimme the phone.”
“Elliot, no—” I warn, snatching my phone back and pocketing it quickly.
“I wasn’t going to do anything.” Elliot sips on her coffee, lips curled around the straw with a devious smirk.
“Except respond?”
“Maybe.” She jostles her shoulders. “But only to say what we are all thinking.”
“Which is?” I ask at the same time Sutton asks, “What is he apologizing for?”
“What doesn’t he have to apologize for?” Elliot leans back into the cushions, crossing her legs. They both stare at me, awaiting a response.
The words are sewn to the inside of my throat.
I haven’t told anyone about hockey or what happened with Luka.
Every time I try, nothing comes out. With how easily we’ve been removed from the arena, campus website, and social media, I figured an announcement would have been made, then at least I could try to escape questions…
or made up my mind about Coach Tyler’s offer.