Chapter 13 Tate
TATE
Liam Hutton is not our guy.
“That was yours,” Hutton calls to Miller as they run a play at the empty arena, while Volkov and I watch from the boards.
She was so certain. How did she know? Does she know him personally?
“Yep,” Miller calls back with an edge to his tone, his good-natured, easygoing way having disappeared about two minutes after he started playing with Hutton.
And why does she look so tired every day? Does she hate waking up early that much, or is it more?
Is she okay? What’s with the scratch on her hand? It looked like it was healing when I caught sight of it this morning.
No. I’m not doing this. I’m not getting invested in Jordan Hathaway. Look how she treats her father, the man who gave her everything. I’ll mentor her and encourage her in her role, but I’m not going to worry about her well-being more than any other employee’s.
I would worry if any employee looked tired, though. I would ask questions.
“Miller doesn’t like him,” Volkov mutters under his breath to me as we watch from the bench.
I exhale slowly. “Yeah.”
“Miller likes everyone.”
That’s not your guy, Jordan said. I know these guys, and he’s not going to fit in with them.
The part of me that makes me a good coach, the part that thrives on recognizing potential in people, snags on her.
I had it with all my people—Streicher, Miller, Owens, Volkov, Walker.
Dr. Greene, when I scooped her up from the local hospital program.
Pippa Hartley, who I thought would make a damn good assistant to Jamie Streicher.
Those two worked together so well that they’re now married.
Darcy Andersen, when I realized her aptitude for statistics matched her knowledge of hockey.
Hazel Hartley, when I received the stellar recommendations from her physiotherapy program and saw her work.
That’s all it takes. Passion and skill. That’s why all of us are here.
Regardless of my personal feelings about Jordan, I owe it to the team and to Ross to use her to the best of her ability.
“Are we done?” Volkov asks, nudging his chin at the ice.
“Yeah. We’re done. He’s not our guy.”
Upstairs, when I walk past her empty office, the box I left on her desk is gone. I sit at my desk, pull my phone out of my pocket, and make a call.
“Well, well, well,” Coach Jay Choudhury answers. “If it isn’t Daddy Ward.”
“Come on.” I can feel the smile pulling across my face. Some things never change, like the way teammates rib each other as a form of affection. My heart tugs with nostalgia.
He laughs. “It’s been what, ten years?”
“Something like that.” Ten years since I blew out my knee, fell into a deep depression, and stopped talking to all the teammates I used to consider my family. “How are you doing, Jay?”
“Great, actually. I’m in your old job at UBC, coaching women’s hockey.”
“I know. That’s actually why I called.” My gaze wanders out the window and I think about her telling me Hutton wasn’t our guy. “I want to ask you about Jordan Hathaway.”