Chapter 26 Tate
TATE
“One last thing,” Ross says as we wrap up the morning meeting the next day.
Jordan lifts her gaze from his keychain, the little hockey stick with his name and number. He’s had it for as long as I’ve known him and when I finally asked about it a couple years ago, he admitted that Jordan made it for him as a child.
Jordan’s spent the entire morning meeting trying not to stare at it.
“There’s an event this Friday evening at the Fairmont Hotel, for disabled youth in hockey,” he tells her. “Tate and I will be there, along with a few players. I expect you there as well.”
She tears her gaze from the keychain. “I remember. I’ll be there.”
“Great. Thank you both.”
We say a quick goodbye and head to the elevator.
“Do you have everything you need for the event?” I ask as we wait. “A dress? Shoes?”
I think about the dress the stylist picked out for her, in the booklet of outfit ideas. The stylist sent a copy to my email in case Jordan loses the printout. I keep looking through it, wondering what she’ll wear the next day, wondering which dress she’ll wear to this weekend’s event.
That red dress is—yeah. Jordan Hathaway is going to have every straight, unattached player on the team drooling after her. An ugly jab hits me in the gut.
“Yep. All set.”
What about hair and makeup, I want to add. These events have a lot of press. A lot of eyes on the attendees. Photos circulate online after, as my brother, Noah, loves to text me. I don’t want her to feel out of place.
I want her to feel like a million bucks.
“Do you know anything about this?” she asks, pulling a blue plastic snack package out of her bag. Dunkaroos. “It was on my car this morning before I left for work.”
A laugh slips out of me, followed by a sharp, sweet twist in my heart. “Bea,” I say simply.
It never ceases to blow my mind that my child is a real person, with her own thoughts and motives and actions.
“She gave you her lunch treat.” I can’t help but smile at Jordan. “Congratulations. She likes you.”
A guarded but pleased look crosses her face. “Am I supposed to eat it?”
“If you want. Just don’t give it back to her,” I add. “Please. It’ll make her feel bad.”
“I wouldn’t,” she says quickly, meeting my eyes with a hurt look in hers. “I don’t want to make her feel bad.”
She sounds defensive and wounded and I feel like an asshole.
“Of course. Sorry.” I give her a tight smile. “She’s my kid, you know? I want to protect her.”
The doors open and I gesture for her to go first.
She makes a low noise, frowning. “Is she close with Ross?”
I pause. It’s an odd question. “Not particularly. They know each other but I wouldn’t say they’re close.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
The elevators open and we walk back to our offices. She tears the plastic wrapping off and holds the Dunkaroos out to me.
It’s the kind with rainbow sprinkles in the icing, the best kind. Sometimes, when I feel like a drink, I sneak one from Bea’s stash.
“Want one?” Jordan asks, and it’s an instinct for me to shake my head.
“No, thank you.”
Her eyes narrow, but before I do something like tell her how lovely she looks today in the silky navy skirt and cashmere pullover, I say goodbye and head to my office, pushing thoughts of Jordan out of my head.