Chapter 6
JORDAN
“I can’t let you up to see Mr. Sheridan without an appointment.”
I spent the entire weekend thinking about what Ward said, listing out my options and replaying the conversation.
For the first time in a decade, I’m going to talk to my dad. The arena receptionist won’t even consider letting me up, though.
“I’m his daughter.”
She gives me a gentle, apologetic look. “Maybe you can call him, then?”
She doesn’t believe me, a situation of my own making. At twenty, I changed my last name to Hathaway, after my mom. They’d raised me out of the spotlight. Only Ward, Georgia, and probably Alexei know that their boss is my father.
“She’s with me,” a low, unwelcome voice says behind me.
The receptionist’s smile turns welcoming and admiring, like she’s under a spell. “Good morning, Coach.”
“Good morning, Dana.” I can smell his bodywash or laundry soap or something clean and fresh. Sharply masculine. “Can you please let Ross know we’re coming up?”
“Absolutely.” She picks up the phone without another word, because when Tate Ward says jump, people don’t argue, they ask how high.
He swipes his lanyard and the barriers open. “Let’s go, Jordan.”
Like a child, I follow.
He presses the button to the top floor, where my dad’s office is. “You actually showed up.”
“I’m not going to let anything happen to my friends.” There’s a determination in my voice that surprises me.
Tate glances down at me. Tall, so tall. I look away but can still feel his gaze on me. What’s he thinking? The moment stretches, and this feels like the world’s slowest elevator until reality hits me: I’m about to speak with my father after ten years.
My stomach flips. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” Tate asks, and I know he’s watching my face, so I keep it neutral.
“Of course.” I keep my eyes closed. “I’m great.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yep.” No. Not even close. I smooth my fingers over my ponytail—a nervous habit—but Tate’s large, warm hand encircles my wrist, pulling it down to inspect it.
“What happened?” he asks, frowning with alarm.
Oh. The scratch. I’ve got another good one across the other arm from trying to get her into her new carrier to take her to the vet on Saturday morning.
“Nothing.” I jerk my wrist back, pulling my jacket sleeve down over it.
The good news: Somehow, she’s in perfect health. The bad news: She’s still a raging bitch and hisses at me every time I enter the same room as her.
The elevator pings on the top floor and the doors open. Like a perfect gentleman, Tate waits for me to exit first.
My father’s door is open, but the walls of his office are glass, and I can see him sitting at his desk, gazing out the window, lost in thought.
He looks lonely, sitting by himself, and emotion washes through me. My motivation falters. What am I doing? Every instinct says to walk away from the man who left me when I needed him most.
“Morning, Ross,” Tate says, taking a seat across from my father’s desk.
“Tate.” My dad nods at him, his eyes on me the entire time, a mix of emotions on his face. Surprise, disbelief, and something softer. Like he missed me.
My heart twists, but I ignore it.
“Hi, Jordan,” he says, quietly. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me.
“Hi, Ross.” I’m all business. I turn to Tate and glance pointedly at the door. “Thanks. I can take it from here.”
He settles into his chair. “I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind.”
A singe of fear moves through me at the idea of him watching me fall flat on my face. He’s the last person I want to witness my rejection.
“Fine by me. Hi, Ross.” I already said that. My pulse quickens and my thoughts feel scattered. My hands toy with each other, and I force them to my sides.
He gives me a little smile. “Hi, Jordan.”
He looks older. More gray hair and more lines on his face, but it’s in his eyes, too. Less spark in them, less intensity. I don’t speak to my father anymore and I don’t need him, but his growing older breaks my heart a bit.
I’m here for a reason, though.
“You can’t sell the team.”
Tate lets out a low, amused noise. “Don’t waste any time, do you? Subtle like a battering ram.”
I ignore him. “You love this team,” I say to my dad. “It’s everything to you. Do not sell the team.”
His eyes trail over me with an expression I can’t read. My dad has always been excellent at hiding his emotions. “It’s time for me to move on, and this team isn’t everything to me.”
It fucking hurts, then, to hear that he chose it over me, again and again.
He never made my school events, because he was playing or coaching.
Vacations were just me and my mom. Even when he was around, he wasn’t present.
He was on the ice, in the dressing room, in his office, thinking about his team.
My mom’s funeral was just the last straw.
One deep breath for courage. “Let’s make a deal, then.”
Interest rises in my dad’s eyes, and suddenly, he doesn’t look so old anymore. “I’m listening.”
“What do you want? Weekly lunches? Dinners? You want me to finally accept money from you? What?”
The checks used to arrive every month, and maybe I’m a complete dumbass, because I’m living in Vancouver’s crappiest apartment and barely making ends meet with the bar, but I ripped them up. I didn’t want his guilt money. I didn’t want anything from him.
My father tilts his head, studying me. He could turn me down. He’s been trying to make amends for a decade, and I’ve been ignoring him.
He’s not going to turn me down, I pray.
Tate watches with a frown. Our eyes meet before he looks back to my father.
Ross adjusts in his seat, crossing his arms and sitting back. “I want you to work for the team.”
The office is silent.
“What?” I ask, stupidly.
“Ross.” Tate’s tone is warning. “Do you think that’s wise?”
Ouch. He’s right, though.
My father smiles like he isn’t listening, and his eyes are on two photos on the wall. One of him as a Storm player, hoisting the Cup in the air. The other of him as a coach, watching with a wide smile as Tate lifts the Cup.
“Work for the team,” my dad says, turning back to me, “win the Stanley Cup, and the team is yours, Jordan.”
I make a noise of disbelief. This is some fucked-up dream.
“I . . .” I blink rapidly. He can’t possibly— “I’m a bartender.”
“Ross, we should talk about this,” Tate says.
“You’re a business owner.” My dad’s eyes stay on me. “With a master’s in sports psychology.”
I don’t have a master’s, though. I dropped out a month before graduation because I got the wrong idea about where I belonged and had my dumb little heart broken into pieces.
Tate turns to look at me with surprise, and god, that’s satisfying, to surprise him like this.
My father’s gaze sharpens. There’s life in his eyes again. A spark that wasn’t there when I walked in.
“She doesn’t even like hockey,” Tate adds. “She barely tolerates the guys. She’s not the type of person I’d put in team management.”
My throat tightens. It’s the image I present to the world on purpose, and yet it doesn’t feel great to have it recited like this.
“We do not need her to win the Stanley Cup, Ross. We can do it all on our own.”
He’s right about that, at least. “How am I supposed to win you a Cup?” I ask my dad. “By slinging drinks? Driving the Zamboni?”
“It’s a twenty-hour course to drive the Zamboni,” my dad says, and I can’t tell if he’s joking.
Tate stays silent, arms folded over his chest, but it’s clear from his expression that he’s unhappy with everything about this.
“You grew up around hockey,” my dad says to me.
“You specialized in intra-team relationships in sports.” How does he know that?
“You worked with the UBC women’s hockey team after Tate left,” how does he know that?
I ignore the way Tate’s head whips to look at me in surprise, “and your findings led to their winning the division championships.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Tate studying me. I can feel his gaze all over my skin.
“The team won because I left,” I insist. “They were better off without me. Just like the Storm will be.”
I hate bringing up what happened at UBC, but I can’t stand here and let them think I’m fit for this job when I’m really, really not.
“Take it or leave it,” my father says, like it’s a done deal. “I already have a handful of interested buyers. I’m dedicated to finding the right fit, but what the new owner decides to do once they take over would be out of my hands.”
There it is. Change is coming, unless I come aboard the Storm.
The insecurities that I’ve spent years turning away from—that I’m not good enough, that I will never, ever belong in this world—come racing back, so loud and bright that I can’t ignore them.
This is a terrible idea.
“I want you to take part in the operation of the team.” My father regards me like I’m one of his coaches or players. “I want to see you putting your mark on this organization.”
I’m so unqualified, it’s not even funny.
“I don’t want to own a hockey team.” I can’t believe I even have to say that out loud.
“Well, when the time comes, you can decide what you want to do with it.” Ross gazes at a framed photo on his desk, but I can’t see the image because it’s facing away from me.
“I bought this team for you to take over one day, and even if you never speak to me again after playoffs are over, I’m going to do everything I can to see out the future I envisioned. ”
What choice do I have? Even if it turns out to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, I have to help my friends.
I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs have shrunk to half-size. “I’ll do it.”
“Great.” My father actually smiles. “That’s great. You’ll start tomorrow, shadowing Tate.”
“What?” Tate and I say in unison before we turn to stare at each other.
No. No, fucking hell, no.
“Tate,” my dad looks to the man beside me, “I’m trusting you to guide and mentor Jordan to the best of your ability. The way you would with anyone in this position.”
Tate stares at him for a long moment before he puts on that polite, neutral expression I hate so much.
He nods, not looking at me. “Understood.”
He hates me, and yet here he is, agreeing to mentor me.
My father gives me a welcoming smile. “Welcome to the Vancouver Storm, Jordan.”