Chapter 12 Jordan
JORDAN
On Friday morning, I enter Ward’s office at six-fifteen, feeling like a bag of garbage from closing the bar last night, and set another disgusting coffee on his desk.
“Good morning, Coach Ward.”
His jaw flexes. He really doesn’t like me calling him that. “Good morning, Jordan.”
He looks up from the email he’s typing and studies the reusable cup, eyes narrowing but the corner of his handsome mouth ticking up. Something fizzes in my chest as I take a seat across from his desk, forcing myself not to react.
Every morning, I bring him a disgusting coffee and watch him take a long, savoring sip of whatever truly horrific blend of syrups the barista threw in there.
“What do we have today?” He picks the drink up and sniffs it. He hasn’t shaved this morning, and dark stubble coats his sharp jaw.
It’s day three of our stupid game. He could end it with one word, one grimace, but he just smiles and thanks for me for the drinks.
That sure is something, he said yesterday. I didn’t know cucumber could taste so spicy.
And then he had lunch delivered to my office that afternoon.
Today, he takes his usual long sip, holding my eyes, before his eyebrows go up, he looks at the drink, and makes a low noise of surprise and pleasure that goes straight between my legs.
“What is that? Marshmallow and caramel?” he asks, frowning at it, before he takes another sip, and there.
There’s that noise again. The one that makes me think of him breathing hard, above me, looking down at me with a half-glazed look in his eyes, lips parted before his eyes close and he throws his head back—
“Glad you like it,” I say in a weird voice. My face feels warm. It’s warm in here.
It was supposed to be too sweet. I told the barista to make it way too sweet, but he actually likes it?
Seeing Tate Ward enjoy something makes my insides feel jittery.
He blinks, clears his throat, and puts the cup down, before thinking better of it and sliding it a few inches farther away. I have an overwhelming urge to make him take another sip.
I want to hear that noise again.
“You’re always here so early,” I blurt out. Anything to make this weirdness go away.
“I go to the gym in the mornings.” So that’s why his hair is always damp. That’s why he always smells so good, fresh and clean and intoxicatingly male.
“Such a hard worker, Coach.”
His eyes drop to my coat and he exhales hard.
“You should call me Tate,” he says, still staring at my coat with an edge to his eyes, “and you should get a better jacket.”
I look down at the sleeve of my corduroy jacket. The hem is fraying. Something more professional, he means.
“Since you refuse to wear mine,” he adds, and before I can respond, the phone rings. He answers, eyes on me. “Good morning, Ross.”
That afternoon, I step out of the elevator and bump straight into a hard male chest.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Whoa.” His hands come to my shoulders to steady me, but I step back, heat crawling up my neck as I get a lungful of Tate’s clean scent. “You okay?”
He’s swapped out his Fuckable Dad outfit for something more casual. A t-shirt and athletic joggers, his hockey gear bag slung over one big shoulder. Chiseled biceps on full display.
Fuckable Dad Goes to the Gym, this look would be called.
“Uh-huh.” My voice sounds too high. “Working out again?” I try not to stare at the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest. “What’s the matter, getting up at four AM isn’t enough torture for you?”
The corner of his mouth slides up and there’s that funny fizz in my chest again. I thought I liked getting on his nerves, but I can’t stop thinking about the noise he made when he had that drink this morning. Caramel marshmallow.
Does Tate Ward have a secret sweet tooth? He’s so responsible and controlled and good. He would never.
“I’m testing out a prospect with Miller and Volkov,” he says, studying me. At whatever he sees, he frowns. “Take off early, Jordan. You’ve had a long week.”
The longest. Between arriving at the arena for the morning call with my dad and closing up the bar in the evenings while I try to find a bar manager, I am fucking exhausted. The second I get home, I’m going to sleep for twenty hours straight, until my shift starts tomorrow afternoon.
Wait. Prospect? “Who are you thinking about trading for?”
“Liam Hutton.”
He starts to move past me into the elevator but I step into his path.
“With New Jersey?” I make a face. I forget how tall he is until he’s right in front of me like this. “Are you kidding?”
His eyebrow goes up. The elevator doors try to close but he lifts a hand to stop them. “The scouting team recommended him.”
“He’s a selfish puck hog.” I’ve seen him play against the Storm. He’s talented, sure, but he’s like who Rory Miller used to be.
Tate studies me, frowning. “I see a lot of potential in him.”
“I’m not saying he doesn’t have talent or potential. I’m saying he’s not the right fit. Our guys are not the right group for him.”
The strength in my voice surprises me. I sound so sure. I am, though. I know Hutton isn’t a good fit for this team. This is what I specialized in during my master’s, how team dynamics change with individual players.
The master’s that I didn’t complete. The work that ushered the UBC team into a losing streak, a tiny, ugly voice reminds me.
“I disagree,” Tate says before his hands come to my shoulders and he gently moves me aside.
Maybe he’s right. I’ve been wrong before.
He steps into the elevator. “Oh, and Jordan?”
Something sparks in his eyes, and my attention hooks on it.
“I left something in your office for you. A little welcome gift from the team. I wanted to say thank you again for going the extra mile with all those drinks this week. That’s the kind of team spirit we love to see around here at the Vancouver Storm. ”
I should be annoyed at how he’s playing this game, but I feel like laughing. I hate this, that he pulls this reaction out of me.
Before I can say another word, the elevator doors close.
I head to my office, expecting something terrible inside the white box on my chair with a big silky bow around it. A dirty sock, maybe, or the dried corpse of his daughter’s pet lizard. One of those compressed snakes that springs out or a glitter bomb that will coat me in sparkles.
Beneath white tissue paper, though, my fingers find soft fabric. Soft like a baby’s blanket.
Oh.
It’s a coat. A rich camel color. The fabric is soft and luxe—cashmere and Italian wool, according to the tag.
Shiny gold buttons, a silky lining, and a big collar to keep me warm.
Holt Renfrew, the tag reads, but the price has been removed.
It’s a luxury department store downtown that I can’t even afford to look in the windows of.
I’m willing to bet that this coat cost several months’ rent.
Something sings through me as I run my fingers over the soft fabric. This is already the nicest thing I’ve ever owned. Georgia is going to flip.
Welcome to the team, the card says in scratchy, masculine writing. From your very patient boss, Tate Ward.
Okay. So this is how it’s going to be? I ignore the warm, bubbly feeling in my chest that Tate Ward got me a pretty, expensive present, and focus on the fact that he is fucking with me. I see exactly what he’s doing. I go low, he goes high.
That’s fine. I grin. Tate Ward doesn’t even know how low I can go.