Chapter 11 Tate
TATE
Jordan strolls into my office the next morning carrying two to-go coffee cups, wearing that thin jacket that isn’t warm enough even for our mild Vancouver winter.
And it definitely isn’t warm enough for the arena.
“Good morning. Look at you.” I give her the pleasant smile that irritates her, and her jaw twitches. “On time.”
“I’m early.” They’re probably the first words she’s said this morning, judging by the rasp to her voice.
I wonder what Jordan looks like when she wakes up. Does she sleep on her stomach, face buried in the pillows, or on her back, arms and legs sprawled across the bed?
What does she sleep in? A t-shirt and underwear? Naked?
An unwelcome pang of arousal hits me in the groin, and I glance at the clock. It’s six twenty-eight. “Early is on time.”
She glowers. “I’m sorry we don’t all go to bed at seven pm.”
My smile hitches higher but my gaze strays to the dark circles under her eyes. Does she have problems sleeping, too?
Or maybe she’s still working at the bar.
“Two coffees.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “That’s a lot of caffeine. But whatever gets you out of bed and at the arena for pretend o’clock.”
“Oh, they’re not both for me.” She slides the coffee toward me, a sparkle in her eye. “One’s for you.”
“Really.” Something isn’t right.
“Yep.” The corner of her pretty mouth is turned up. “I thought we could start fresh today. I’m sorry I called you annoying yesterday.”
No, she isn’t. What’s she up to?
“That’s kind of you,” I tell her, trying not to smile as something playful and interested jumps around in my chest. “But unfortunately I don’t drink coffee.”
She holds my eyes, challenge rising in hers. “It’s matcha.”
“Matcha, huh?” I pick up the cup, studying it. Her name is scribbled on the side in marker.
“Mhm.” She watches me, careful and curious. Waiting.
I take a tentative sip and use every ounce of control not to react.
It tastes like poison.
“Hmm.” I repress a laugh. “Matcha tastes different than I remember.”
I refuse to gag or spit it out or tell her it’s terrible, whatever reaction she’s looking for as part of this immature game. Bea does this sometimes, testing my limits to see how far she can push. The key is to not play the game.
“Is that peppermint?” I act pleasantly surprised. “Or toothpaste?”
“It’s matcha,” she repeats.
Well, it tastes like cough syrup.
“Thank you, Jordan.” I hold her eyes, a laugh right under the surface of my expression. “I really appreciate this thoughtful gesture.”
I’m being mature. I’m not reacting so we can end this, not so I can rile her up more.
Her eyes narrow. I smile a little more and lift the cup to take another sip but my hand freezes with the cup in midair as I spot it.
A smear of lip balm, right where my mouth was a moment ago. A pale peachy pink in the perfect shape of her lips. Another thrum of arousal moves through me, landing low in my gut.
What would it be like, to kiss Jordan Hathaway?
“Tate?”
“Hmm?” My head snaps up. Jordan’s giving me an expectant look. It’s the first time she’s called me by my first name, I realize. My name sounds different on her lips.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
She holds my gaze, and again I feel the urge to laugh at her stupid game. She’s figured it out: I won’t lie.
“It’s something,” I say with a smile.
Competition sparks in her eyes.
“Great.” She leans forward, holding my eyes, and I’m thinking about her lips on my coffee cup again. “I’ll bring you another one tomorrow.”
“That’s very generous, seeing as this probably cost about eight bucks—”
“Eleven, with tip. But you’re worth it, Coach.”
Another thrum of arousal, stronger this time. Why is her calling me Coach like that such a turn on? Is it the way her lips shape when she says it?
“I’m going to bring you another drink tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. And every day until the end of playoffs, because I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care if you think I’m a flake or unqualified or a waste of space.”
I frown. I never said she was a waste of space. I don’t think that. I just think she should take up space somewhere else.
“Like it or not,” she continues, “my unqualified ass is going to save this team from being sold. I’m going to do everything I can to get this team to win the Stanley Cup, and then I’ll be out of your hair forever. Three months, and then I’m gone.”
I don’t understand Jordan Hathaway, and I don’t like her, either, because if I had a father like Ross Sheridan, I’d never shut him out. But this backbone she’s showing me? This determination to keep the team together and prevent it from being sold?
I respect her for it.
“Good,” I say, still holding her eyes. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Confusion appears in her eyes.
“How do you propose we handle the rest of the season?” I ask and she looks even more confused, like this is the last thing she expected.
Her fingers come to her ponytail before she drops her hand. Is that a nervous habit? “You need more centermen.”
The center forward is arguably the most important position on the team. They need to be strong at both offense and defense, a fast skater, and able to score goals. They need to be good at everything.
I sit back, folding my arms over my chest. “We have Miller.”
“Miller can’t carry this team. What if he gets inju—”
I hold a hand up and she falls silent. “Jordan, do not finish that sentence.”
What if he gets injured, she was about to say, and I don’t even want to think about that possibility.
Something flares in her eyes, and her mouth does that pretty curve again. “Superstitious?”
All hockey players are a little superstitious. When I don’t answer, she smiles more.
“You need better centermen on your second, third, and fourth lines. It’ll take the pressure off Rory.”
“He thrives on pressure.”
“No, he thrives on competition. He thrives when he’s enjoying himself on the ice. Look at how he played after he started going to that beer league.”
My head tilts. “How do you know about that?”
A busted look passes over her features. “I overhear things at the bar.”
It doesn’t feel like the whole truth, but regardless, she’s right. Miller rediscovered his love of hockey and it changed him for the better.
“How are we going to pay for these new centermen?”
“Trade guys who aren’t serving us, like Barlow,” she says without missing a beat.
She’s thought about this. “He’s a good winger but Kato’s better.
We can pair draft picks with their contracts to make them more enticing.
” Her knee bounces up and down and she talks faster, with more conviction.
“Anyone who doesn’t fit with the team socially needs to go.
It’s more important than ever that these guys are rock solid as a group.
” She presses her mouth closed like she’s said too much.
So, the quiet bartender knows a little more about hockey than she lets on.
“Very good. I agree.” I nod once, and something lights up her eyes.
“You do?”
Surprise? Pride? Relief? I’m not sure, but it hooks at me, snagging my attention.
The part of me that loves to develop people wakes up.
Is there something there with Jordan? She knows hockey and she has a master’s, which I was unaware of.
I was also unaware that she worked with the UBC team after I left.
Between UBC and the Storm, I took a year to be a full-time parent while Holly finished school, and during that time, Jordan did something I couldn’t—get the women’s team a championship.
What else am I unaware of with her?
Ross Sheridan isn’t the encouraging type. He sits back and lets the talent rise without meddling.
But what if Jordan needed some encouragement. What if she needed the right conditions to thrive?
“It’s a good strategy,” I tell her.
She blinks, confused, like she didn’t expect this. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” I add, because I can’t resist.
She frowns, the confusion intensifying on her features.
“When someone pays you a compliment, Jordan, you say thank you.” I try not to smile but the corner of my mouth lifts.
She scoffs. “Was that a compliment? I didn’t hear you choking on it.”
I need to close my eyes so I don’t burst out laughing at her smart mouth. A deep breath helps me regain control before I open my eyes and give her a patient smile.
I don’t know what game we’re playing, but I like it. “I’m happy to see you invested. Differences aside, we’re going to have to work together this season.”
She looks down at her hands, and I wish I knew what she was thinking. On the back of her hand, though, something catches my attention, and before I realize it, I’m on my feet, rounding the desk, and wrapping my fingers around her delicate wrist.
“What is this?” I ask, inspecting the deep scratch. The skin is red and angry. This looks recent. “Is this from that cat? Did you clean this properly?”
I sound . . . mad? Frustrated, at least. She tries to pull her wrist back, but I hang on. She tugs again, and I let go.
“Yes, I cleaned it.” She tucks her hand beneath the sleeve of her jacket. “It’s fine. It looks worse than it is.”
I cross my arms. “Are you still feeding that cat in the alley?”
She hesitates, not looking at me. “No.”
“Jordan.”
She lifts her gaze to me, holding my eyes with defiance. “I am not feeding the cat in the alley.”
This is none of my business. Jordan is a grown woman, and it’s not my problem that she looks tired or that her coat isn’t warm enough or that some cat scratched her.
And yet, it bothers me. All of it. I take a deep breath and sigh.
My desk phone rings and I answer on speaker, both relieved and frustrated at the interruption.
“Hi, Ross.”
“Good morning, Tate.” His voice fills my office. “Is Jordan there?”
“Yep.” She holds my eyes, studying me like she isn’t sure what to make of me anymore. “I’m here.”