Chapter 14 Tate
TATE
On Saturday night, I slide into one of the bar seats at the Filthy Flamingo, my suspicion about Jordan Hathaway confirmed. She appears in front of me, one eyebrow raised. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Jordan.” I lean back in my seat, looking around the small bar. It’s not a game night, so it’s just a few regulars sitting near the back.
This is why she’s so tired. She’s been working her tail off this past week.
Guilt twists in my chest, hard. I should have noticed sooner. I should have done something about it. For anyone else, I would have.
“Tate.” She holds my eyes, and I like the way she says my name. “What are you doing here?” she asks again.
“Why are you still working at the bar, Jordan?”
“I’m trying to find a manager.”
“How long is that going to take?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. How long do trades take? They take as long as you need to find the right person.”
Fair point, but I still find myself hauling in a deep breath, raking a hand through my hair in frustration.
“The team can help you find someone for the bar.”
“No, thanks. I’ve seen how you recruit. I’m all set.”
“About that.” I hold her eyes. Under the twinkle lights she has strung up along the ceiling, they sparkle. “You were right.”
She blinks once, like she isn’t sure she heard right, before her mouth curves. It’s not a full, genuine smile, but it’s not the guarded look she normally wears.
It’s a start. A start of what, though, I have no clue.
“Excuse me?”
“You were right,” I repeat. “He didn’t work out.”
Her lips part in surprise and something flares in her eyes. She likes being right. No, she loves being right.
It’s fascinating, seeing Jordan Hathaway enjoy something like this.
“You were right and I was wrong,” I say, because I want more.
Her eyes roll back and she groans. Blood rushes to my cock, sudden and violent, and oh, fuck. She can’t be making noises like that in front of me.
“But Coach, you were so sure.”
Coming here was a bad idea. When she calls me Coach like that, I feel—weird. Tense. Turned on.
Attracted to her.
Fuck. That’s not okay.
“That’s what you said, isn’t it?” she presses, wearing that curve on her mouth and the gleam in her eyes. “That you disagreed with me? That he’s young and talented and you saw a lot of potential in him?”
I run the tip of my tongue over my canine, not meeting her eyes.
“Maybe my memory’s wrong,” she adds.
“Jordan.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Let’s be mature about this.” I raise an eyebrow, trying to get at her, and her eyes narrow like my shot landed. “And stop calling me Coach.”
“Sorry, Tate.”
Why is that hot? It’s her lips. No, it’s her eyes, the way they narrow when she says my name. It’s the way I think about her whispering it in my ear. A shiver makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
She holds my eyes, a spark of challenge and entertainment running through hers, and I feel it in my chest—the desire to win, but also, the fun of a game. I’m competitive, of course I am. It’s in my blood, it’s what made me a great hockey player.
She’s smiling more, narrowing her eyes at me, and I like it. I like her looking at me like this, like we’re teasing each other. A sense of calm settles through me, sitting here in her quiet bar.
“How did you know about Hutton?” I ask her, because that’s the real reason I’m here tonight.
“I know the team.” She glances around the bar. “I overhear them talking at the bar. I know how they work together and how they play on the ice.”
Under my gaze, she shifts, the fun, playful light in her eyes fading away. “Do you want a drink?”
“Soda water with lime, please.” I watch her get to work, and the second she has something to do with her hands, she relaxes. “I talked to Jay Choudhury today.”
Jordan goes still, her expression blank.
“He told me that you helped them win championships.”
Something I had been trying to do with the team for my four years as head coach.
“I didn’t.” She keeps her eyes on the glass as she opens a bottle of sparkling water. “They did that on their own.”
It’s what she said in Ross’s office.
“He said your recommendations were the reason they won, even after you left. That you emphasized building trust and confidence within the team, and studied how the lineups played differently with different personalities.”
Why isn’t she taking the credit she deserves? Does she want me to think she’s unqualified?
Jay told me something else that I keep thinking about. He said she didn’t graduate. She took off about a month before the school year ended, he added. Sent me an email saying she wouldn’t be working with the team anymore, and the next day her office was cleared out.
She puts a piece of lime on the rim of the glass and slides it toward me. “Shouldn’t you be home with your daughter?”
“She’s with her mom and stepdad tonight.”
She makes a thoughtful noise, leaning against the back counter, and I take a sip of the drink.
“Best soda water with lime in the city,” I tell her, and she snorts.
“Do you not drink?” she asks, studying her dark nails. “You never order something with booze in it.”
The nails are navy blue today. They were maroon yesterday, so she must have redone them either last night or today. I picture her wherever she lives, painting her nails with care and attention and focus.
“Yes, I quit drinking. The night I found out Bea was coming.”
Her eyes lift to mine, curious, but she doesn’t ask more.
“I was drinking a lot in those days. Too much. Her mother, Holly, and I had hooked up only once, and then she called me and said she was pregnant and . . .” I shake my head, the memories washing over me.
“I was an alcoholic, and depressed, and I was going to have a child, so I didn’t want to be that way anymore.
I’m still an alcoholic,” I add, “but I’m recovering. And sober.”
She makes that thoughtful humming noise again, still watching me, and something that looks like respect and admiration rises in her eyes.
Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
“Alcohol use disorder is the more modern term,” I add. “Your dad brought me there, actually.”
She stiffens. “Where?”
“To rehab. The night I got the call about Bea.” Although we didn’t know she was Bea at that time. “And when I was done with rehab, he made a call and found me the coaching job at UBC.”
She studies me, frowning a little. I don’t know why I’m telling her all of this. It’s not relevant.
It feels good, though, to share with her. Maybe she’ll share with me, too.
She studies her nails again. “Were you and Holly . . . ?” Her gaze lifts, a question in her eyes.
“Together? No. I think we knew from the beginning that there was nothing but friendship between us. I don’t even know why we hooked up.” I shrug. “And I don’t remember it. But we agreed to be friends, for Bea. She needs to see her parents in a healthy relationship, even if it isn’t romantic.”
Jordan stares at me, and I wish I could hear what she’s thinking. “You seem like a good dad.”
“Wow.” My eyebrows lift. “Was that a compliment? I didn’t hear you choking on it.”
Her eyes change, going sharp and entertained. “When someone pays you a compliment, Tate, you say thank you.”
Is she flirting with me? No. She couldn’t be. Jordan Hathaway doesn’t flirt. Something electric zings through the air between us, though, and there’s that heavy, unwelcome ache in my groin. I clear my throat, look away, and she does the same.
“Thank you,” I tell her with a nod. Polite and professional, I remind myself. “I try to be a good dad. I try very hard.”