Chapter 21
TATE
Half an hour later, Jordan steps out of the elevator, wearing the clothes I bought her, carrying two coffee cups.
The guilt at lying about who paid for the wardrobe grinds in my gut, but she’d never accept it if she knew the truth.
She pays her bar staff well, Dr. Greene told me. Full benefits, even if they’re part-time. Vacation pay. The rent is expensive. She probably takes almost no salary, judging by the apartment she was living in.
The team could have set her up with living accommodations at a moment’s notice. I shouldn’t have offered her a place to stay. Jordan is a grown woman who can take care of herself.
She strides into my office, looking like a million bucks in that outfit. I feel better keeping an eye on her, and I like providing her with things more than I should.
“Brought you something,” she says, setting one of the cups on my desk, and something in my chest jumps with excitement.
“Ah.” I sit back and give her the calm expression that pisses her off. “I was just thinking I could go for one of those toothpaste drinks.”
Her nails are a rich violet today, the same color as one of the bras the stylist picked out for her.
Do you have anything in mind? The stylist had asked on the phone.
Something that makes her feel sexy and beautiful, I said without missing a beat.
The image of her dainty finger holding up those panties flashes into my head and I push it away for the tenth time since I woke up, hard and aching and thinking about her sleeping fifty feet away.
Not appropriate. None of this is appropriate.
Her mouth tightens and her eyes sparkle like she’s doing everything she can not to laugh. “I wanted to say thank you for arranging for my things to be brought over. And for letting me stay in the guesthouse.”
There’s that smear of her lip balm again on the rim. I wonder if it tastes like anything. If it makes her lips taste like anything.
“My pleasure. You look nice today.” I catch myself. “Professional. You look professional.”
She gives me an odd look because I’m flustered like a fucking teenager, before she gestures at the drink, eyes bright.
“Well, go on.”
I bring the cup to my lips, holding her eyes. What’s it today, huh? Milk with little bits of spinach floating in it? Wheatgrass and strawberry? Motor oil?
The delicious taste of marshmallow and caramel hits my tongue and my eyes close at how good it is. How sweet. How it races to some area of my brain that loves sugar. Some caveman part of me that says more.
If we kissed, this is how she’d taste. This is how I’d feel.
I clear my throat, looking down at it. “It’s the same drink as Friday.”
She looks pleased. “So you do like it.”
Too much. I could drink ten of these, one after the other. I take a deep, calming breath, acknowledge the urge, and wait for it to pass. The same thing I do when I want to drink liquor.
“Thank you.” I slide the drink away before rubbing the back of my neck. “Very thoughtful of you.”
She narrows her eyes. “Have the rest.”
“No,” I say quickly before checking my tone into something less urgent. “No, thank you.”
She studies me. It doesn’t feel good, to be on the receiving end of this look. “Why not?”
Because I’ve had enough indulgence. I spent two years getting drunk most nights.
When I get out of control, when I let myself have things I want, bad things happen. I have a daughter now. I’m a role model for my players. I can’t let myself slip, not even for a second.
“I’m full from the protein smoothie I had after the gym.” I run a hand through my hair and change the subject. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
She takes a seat, listening.
“You were right about Hutton. Who do you think would be a good fit for our team?”
“Brooks Yang-Hanson,” she says without missing a beat.
“With Seattle?”
She nods. “He’d be a good second-line centerman and a backup for Rory.”
“You don’t like Berg?”
“It’s not that I don’t like him.” She leans back in the chair, frowning as she chooses her words, and it does something to me, seeing her at ease and focused like this. Maybe it’s how she looks in this outfit, how professional and confident, or maybe it’s something different about her.
She looks like she belongs here, strategizing with me.
“He’s a good player but he’s on the tail end of his career,” she says. “You know how Volkov loves the game so much, he wanted to win another cup even until the last second of his last game? Berg’s not like that.”
She’s right. I blow out a heavy breath. “I hate giving up on people.”
I don’t know why I admitted that. This is my problem, Ross has gently pointed out. I see the potential in people and have a hard time letting go. Sometimes I hang on way, way too long.
“You aren’t giving up on him. His career isn’t over, he’d just be going to another team, a team he might be a better fit for.”
“I know it’s part of the deal, that guys get traded, but I can’t help but think about what could be.” I fold my arms. “Remember Connor McKinnon?”
“Ugh.” Her lip curls. “I fucking hate that guy.”
I wince. “Yeah. I thought being with this group would bring out his better traits.”
Instead, he caused friction with the team and treated Hazel, his ex-girlfriend, inappropriately. I’m not usually wrong about people, but when I am, I’m really wrong.
Just look at my father. I spent years hoping he’d stay and love us.
Jordan’s studying me with a strange expression, curious and concerned, and I hope I’m not wrong about her.
“So, Yang-Hanson,” I prompt.
Her eyes brighten with interest and determination. “He’s physical but fast and shifty. He’s enthusiastic and a good team player. He’d fit right in with the guys.”
That feeling I get about people? It’s pulsing through me right now, bright and powerful. This is what Jordan Hathaway can do. She said it herself: She knows hockey, she knows people, and she knows this team.
Maybe more than anyone, she knows this team.
“I’ll set something up with him this week when we head to Seattle. We can test him out on the ice and then go for dinner with him so you can get a better read.”
“I’m coming?”
“Of course. Is that a problem?”
“Nope.” Her eyes are still so bright but she takes a deep breath, like she’s trying to hide her excitement.
Adorable.
Our eyes hold and something hooks in my chest, right behind my sternum. She’s unfriendly and sarcastic and closed-off, I remind myself. She doesn’t speak to a father most people wish they could have. She had the most privileged upbringing and yet she turned her nose up at it.
And yet, I’m still sitting here, having a good time talking about hockey with her.
“There’s someone I think you should meet with,” I tell her.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Grace Madueke.”
She thinks for a moment before a frown pulls over her features.
Grace Madueke is the owner of a very successful NBA team. She inherited the team from her father, and before that, she spent a decade working with the organization. I met her a few years ago and we keep in touch.
“I’d be happy to connect you two.”
Jordan’s expression flattens. “Why?”
Yes, Tate, why? Why am I going out of my way to develop someone who doesn’t want to be developed?
Because I would do this for any employee.
“You can come to me for guidance, of course, but you’re a woman in a male-dominated industry. Grace may offer insight that I can’t.”
“No, thanks. There’s no point.” She rises to her feet and tucks her arms across herself. Back in her shell. “I’m only going to be here until the end of playoffs, so . . .” She shrugs. “I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”
Before I can push back, she’s out of my office and taking a seat in hers, across the hall, and even though she’s been clear about wanting nothing to do with the team long term, I find myself disappointed.