Chapter 7
JORDAN
The next day, at what-the-fuck o’clock in the morning, I walk into Tate Ward’s office at the arena. The sun isn’t even up yet but he’s typing at his laptop, dark hair damp, wearing another Fuckable Dad outfit of pale blue oxford shirt, slim dark jeans, and leather boots.
He looks up and surprise flares in his eyes.
I drop into the seat across from his desk. “You can create this fake morning meeting that starts in the middle of the night, but you won’t get rid of me that easily.”
“Good morning, Jordan.” The corner of his mouth twitches like he finds this funny. “Six-thirty is a real time, even if you’ve never seen it.”
His eyes move over my ponytail, my casual clothes, before they linger on the bags beneath my eyes. “Not a morning person, huh?”
I didn’t know how to dress for this, so I wore what I always wear in winter—a wool sweater, jeans, and sneakers. Whatever he expected, he finds me lacking.
Whatever. What I wear has no correlation to what I can do for this team.
“Sure, I am. I love mornings, and I feel great.”
I hate mornings, and I feel like death. I’m still working at the bar in the evenings, searching for a bar manager to take over for the next couple months. I have that gritty, dry feeling in my eyes and acidic nausea in my stomach from the five hours of sleep I managed to get.
“Now that is the kind of enthusiasm we love to see in the Storm front office.” He starts to smile, and it sets off another burst of irritation through my blood. “It’s going to be fun, having you around.”
His lie annoys me. He can’t stand me almost as much as I can’t stand him. And the fact that he pretends to be this perfect, pleasant guy makes me even more angry.
Something behind him catches my attention—a child’s drawing. It’s not very good, but even I can tell that it’s him and his daughter with a bunch of stars in the sky.
“Nice art project.”
He glances over his shoulder, and when he turns back to me, his eyes change. They go . . . happier. More affectionate. His whole body relaxes, shoulders inching down and mouth going soft.
“I have a nine-year-old. Bea.”
Bea. So that’s her name. He says it like Bee-ah. “Pretty.”
“It means gift,” he says. “Beatrice. But we call her Bea.”
Who’s we, I want to ask. Her mother? Are they together? I don’t think so. Georgia maintains that he’s single.
Not that I care.
He clears his throat, and the moment is over. “Here’s your laptop and phone.” He slides them across his desk to me. “Your business credit card will arrive by the end of the week, and your office should be ready by this afternoon.”
“Where did you stick me?” I give him a wry smile. “The supply closet?”
“The old GM’s office.” He nudges his chin toward the sprawling office across the hall, and I’m filled with discomfort.
I would actually prefer a cramped supply closet. I definitely do not deserve to sit in there.
“That way I can keep an eye on you,” he adds. “Make sure you don’t cause too much chaos.”
That ugly, ashamed feeling washes through me again. I thought about it all night, as I hid in my room while the cat had the rest of the apartment to herself.
He doesn’t want me here. No surprise there.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Coach.”
“Please.” He sits back, lacing his fingers together and folding them over his flat stomach. God, I can’t stand him.
“I find you extremely annoying.”
He looks like he wants to smile. No, he is smiling now. “See?” I gesture at his stupid handsome face. “Annoying.”
“What exactly about me do you find annoying?” It doesn’t even bother him, that I’m sitting here, insulting him. He’s that secure. He knows I have so little to work with.
“You have this wise, high-handed, all-knowing thing going on. You study people. Who do you think you are, Gandalf?”
His mouth quirks up.
“Stop smiling.”
“Am I smiling? I didn’t realize.”
“You can cut that nice guy shit with me, too.”
“Treating people with basic decency and respect isn’t nice guy shit, Jordan. Do you need a coffee? You’re more abrasive than normal.” His eyebrows lift. “Or maybe you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
Of course I am. I’m a wreck. The Stanley Cup. That’s what my dad wants. How am I—? I can’t. Tate said it himself—they’d never hire someone like me for management.
I don’t belong here.
“I’m not nervous,” I repeat.
“Right.” He doesn’t say anything for a moment.
“Let’s talk about how you can contribute to the Storm.
Ross wants you as involved as possible and learning the ropes of team ownership, so I’ve had my admin forward you last year’s financial report.
Knowing where the money comes from and where it goes is probably the most important information if you’re going to own the team. ”
About that. Come on. I like my bar, I like my quiet life, and I learned my lesson back in school: I am not meant for the sports world.
I’m going to give the team to Tate. Or sell it to him for a dollar. Whatever I need to do to wipe my hands clean. We don’t get along, but I’m not dumb—he’s the best guy for the job.
Tate doesn’t need to know my plans yet, though.
“While you’re still learning the ropes, you’ll be beneath me—”
I look up in surprise, mind flashing with images of him on top of me in the most inappropriate way.
Not an unwelcome way, to my alarm.
“In the org chart,” he continues.
Is he teasing me? Or flirting? No. He doesn’t flirt. It’s so hard to tell with him sometimes, though.
“Fine,” I manage, my face going hot. “You’re my boss. Got it.”
Get a hold of yourself, Jordan.
“Team practice is at ten, so you can use that time to either familiarize yourself with the financials, or meet staff around the arena. Although, I’d be happy to introduce you myself later.”
I snap to attention. “I want to come to practice.”
He pauses. “Why?”
I’m used to seeing the guys in the bar, relaxed and laughing. Sometimes, if Georgia convinces me to come to dinner at her and Alexei’s house. I’ve seen their games online. I want to see them play in person, though.
“My area of focus should be hockey.”
Tate studies me before his expression turns polite once more.
“Fine. It’ll be a good time to introduce you to the team in your new role.”
Another set of nerves tumble around inside my stomach. God, why am I even here? It’s a joke. Everyone’s going to laugh.
He glances at his watch. “But first, we have a call.” He lifts the phone and dials.
“Good morning, Tate,” my father answers, and my gut dips.
“Morning, Ross.”
“Is Jordan there?”
“She is.” His eyes flick to me.
“Good morning, Jordan.”
My nervous system shifts into a higher gear. “Morning.”
“How’s your first day so far?”
I hold Tate’s eyes. “Fantastic.”
“Really.” My dad sounds surprised. “Tate’s showing you the ropes?”
“Oh, yeah.” A spark of challenge rises in his eyes, and it makes something flip in my chest. “Practically bending over backwards to get me up to speed. I feel so welcome.”
The corner of his mouth slides up, eyes bright.
“Really, now.” My dad sounds pleased. “That’s great that you two are getting along so well. I love to see it. I know you have a busy day, so I’ll let you give me the rundown.”
“Game against Colorado tomorrow,” Tate says. “Their offense is weak since Delacroix and Anseuw are injured, so we’ll devote extra time to offensive drills today. The analysts are preparing video content of Colorado’s favored plays.”
“Goldman has a hell of a shot,” my dad adds. Colorado’s center, I think.
“And that’s why we won’t let him touch the puck tomorrow night,” Tate answers.
My dad chuckles. “Okay. Go on.”
“I have my regular meeting with Miller this afternoon, and lunch with Walker.”
“Sounds like another day in paradise. Talk to you later.”
“Bye, Ross.”
“Oh, and Jordan?” my dad asks.
“Yes?” I can hear the wariness in my voice.
“There’s an event in a couple weeks, a charity gala for disabled youth in hockey. Tate will attend along with a few of the players, and I expect you there, as well. Any event Tate attends on behalf of the team, I want you at.”
My stomach sinks. Something public? A chance for my dad to show me around, I’m assuming. I want to protest, but what’s the point?
For the next couple months, my schedule and my life belong to the Vancouver Storm.
“Got it,” I respond.
“Great. Have a great day, you two.”
“Bye, Ross.” Tate hangs up the phone before he leans back in his chair and regards me with an inscrutable expression. “The event is black tie. Do you have something to wear?”
No. I’m embarrassed that he even knew to ask this. Am I that much of a mess? Is it that obvious that I’m so out of my element here? “I’ll find something.”
He studies me, looking like he wants to say something, before he stands. “Come on. I’ll show you where you can find the coffee. You seem like you need it.”