Chapter 30 Tate
TATE
“Dr. Greene was right,” I say to Jordan later, as the group lingers around the bar.
She gives me a quizzical look.
“About your bangs.” I gesture at them. “They do look nice.”
She blinks, frowning, and I regret saying that. I need to stop complimenting her, like I need to stop staring at her and thinking about her and wondering about her.
“Why do you call her that?” she asks.
“Dr. Greene?”
She nods. “Everyone calls her Georgia at work.”
“People often ignore women’s professional titles. Dr. Greene spent a long time in school and is excellent at what she does. It’s a sign of respect.”
Her eyes narrow and she studies me. I don’t like it. What’s she thinking?
“Jordan.” Her father appears between us, looking at her with a pleasantly surprised expression.
Her throat works. “Hi.”
He nods at me. “Tate. Looking dapper as always.”
“Thank you, Ross.”
He turns to Jordan and his eyes soften. “And you look very beautiful, Jordan.”
She stares at something behind him. “Thanks.”
A tense silence lingers.
“And thank you for the dress,” she tells him, and my gut drops.
“The dress?” Ross looks confused.
“All of it.” She can’t even meet his eye. “Thank you.”
“All of it,” he echoes, not following. Ross gives me an odd look, but I stay very still. Off whatever he sees in my expression, he smiles a little. “Right. Yes. You’re welcome.”
Another silence lingers between the three of us. It’s my turn to stare at the floor and take a long sip of water.
“I was wondering if you’d like to—” Ross starts.
“I’m going to get another drink,” Jordan says abruptly, walking to the bar on the other side of the room, even though the one beside us isn’t busy.
“Well,” Ross says with a sigh as she leaves. “That went as expected.”
Frustration grows through my chest, tightening around my lungs.
Ross wants nothing more than to patch things up with Jordan, but she won’t even give him the time of day.
She’s like a brick wall. I think about how all-consuming parenthood is, how my child is everything to me, how she’s always on my mind, how I’d do anything for her.
I know Ross is the same. He doesn’t say it, but I know it’s true.
“Do I want to know what she’s talking about with the dress?” he asks.
“No. Excuse me,” I say, not looking at him, before I follow her.
It only takes me a few strides to catch up with her.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” I say in her ear.
“No.”
“Too bad.” I wrap a hand around her small wrist and pull her aside, down a quiet hallway, before I face her. “That was rude.”
Her eyes flash with indignation. “Tate, butt out.”
“Your father gave you everything. Anyone would be thrilled to have a guy like him for a dad and yet you flip him the middle finger every chance you get.”
She lets out a harsh, unhappy laugh. “Mind your own business, Tate.”
It’s the same thing she said to me at Volkov and Dr. Greene’s vow renewal back in September, when she walked away from her father without a word.
My pulse races, a fast rhythm in my ears as I try and fail to control my emotions. What is it about Jordan Hathaway that sets my temper off like this?
“Ross loves you.” I don’t like how frustrated I sound. This isn’t who I am. “Every time you ignore him or walk away from him—”
“Has he ever told you what happened?” She lifts her chin, looking up at me with those pretty indigo eyes with thick, dark lashes.
“He said you didn’t talk to him anymore. He said you wanted nothing to do with him.”
“But did he tell you what happened?”
“He said he made a mistake.” Years ago, when I joined the team and he asked me to check up on her. But he didn’t say what.
“He skipped my mom’s funeral.” She watches me. “Did he tell you that?”
A horrible feeling washes through me. “No, he didn’t.” He’d loved her. When she passed, he was devastated. I was in rehab at the time, but I could see it when he visited. He wasn’t himself for a long time after.
Still isn’t, I think.
“Of course he didn’t.” She presses her lips together, taking a deep breath.
“I sat alone, at her funeral. And I sat by her bedside for the weeks that she was sick. He wasn’t there when she died.
And guess what? Growing up? He wasn’t there either.
He was playing hockey, or coaching hockey, or owning a team.
He was on the phone, or on his computer, working.
He didn’t just miss her funeral, Tate. He missed my high school graduation.
Birthdays. Every parent teacher conference. A lot of Christmases.”
“He worked hard to provide for you.” Even I don’t believe this. Christmas? Birthdays? I’d never miss those for Bea. The bad feeling inside me grows.
“This went far beyond providing for me, and you know it.” She swallows and looks down.
“When you aren’t with the team, you’re with Bea.
” Her mouth twists into a pained, hurt smile, and my gut sinks.
“He was working. He’d find something to do, find some excuse.
He wasn’t around. He chose his team, his guys—” She pins me with her gaze, and I know she’s talking about me, “over us. Over me.”
I’m speechless. He didn’t talk about Natalie’s illness and I didn’t pry, but I didn’t realize he wasn’t there. I assumed he was.
Who wouldn’t be?
Some of the anger leaves her eyes. “I think a part of me has been blaming you for years that he chose you again and again but—” She takes a deep breath, and it’s like she lets something go.
Something she’s been holding onto. “It isn’t your fault that he always chose someone or something over me, and it’s that simple.
That’s Ross Sheridan, Tate. He isn’t there when I need him. ”
She holds my eyes, suddenly looking so young. Hurt, too. My heart aches and I rub the back of my neck, looking away.
Coward. That’s the awful word that comes to mind for the man I’ve always considered a role model.
“I didn’t realize. About him not being around while you were growing up.” I swallow, a tight ball forming behind my sternum. “He always talked about you. Bragged about you. Had a photo of you in his wallet.”
Probably still has it.
“I didn’t know,” I say again, for some reason. Because it matters, I guess.
“I know I’m privileged.” She lifts her chin. “I know I’ve had more than most people. Why do you think I pay my bar staff so well? I’m trying to make up for it, Tate. I’m trying to make a positive impact on this planet and not leech off my rich father. I’m trying to make my own way without him.”
“You have.”
She makes a low noise. “Right. Thanks.” Her voice drips with sarcasm.
“I’m serious, Jordan. You run your own business in a city where commercial real estate is through the roof. Living expenses are high and the food and beverage industry isn’t easy. I know that.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugs, looking away. It’s as close to a real thanks as I’m going to get.
A pause lingers while my mind races with everything I’ve learned and realized in the last five minutes. An ache throbs behind my eyes.
“Your father loves you. Even if he doesn’t know how to show it. I know he does, Jordan.”
“Okay.” Her throat works again. “Maybe he does, in his messed-up way, but it isn’t my responsibility to pick up the slack on his side of things.
My mom, she . . .” She presses her lips in a tight line.
“She loved me so much and she showed me that, every day. She was there. She smothered me with love. She wanted to be around me, even when I was a bitchy, moody teenager. I never doubted how much she loved me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She was so . . .” She sighs, and a little smile tips up on her mouth.
“Sparkly. Like pure sunlight, you know? So fun and kind and warm. She would walk into a room and everyone wanted to be her friend and talk to her and know more about her. And she loved me.” Her eyes shine but she blinks the emotion away.
“So don’t be sorry. Yes, Ross was a shit dad.
Ross wasn’t around. Ross would rather coach his guys and mentor his perfect protegé than talk to his daughter.
But I had Natalie.” She shrugs, expression turning blank again. “That was enough.”
An awful sensation rips through me—like the ground tilting beneath my feet. My perspective shifts and an unwelcome realization hits me: I was wrong.
I was wrong about Jordan Hathaway and I was wrong about Ross Sheridan.
“I’m sorry I got upset.” I feel stripped bare, exposed and vulnerable that I lost my cool because of her.
“It’s fine.” She darts a sidelong glance at me. “It was kind of fun, making you lose it like that.”
“I didn’t lose it.”
She snorts. “Oh, you lost it.” Her mouth is flat but her eyes are bright, and I smile.
“Before we go back in,” she says, toying with the ends of her hair, “I need to say one thing. You said Ross and Bea aren’t close, but he has that little hockey stick of hers on his keychain.
That’s the kind of thing he never did for me, you know?
So it sucks to see him care about your kid more than he cared about me. ”
She starts to walk past me but I step in her way.
“Jordan.” My hand comes to her arm. “Bea didn’t give him that hockey stick.”
She frowns at me. “A kid made it. She’s probably the only kid he knows.”
“Bea did not give him that hockey stick,” I insist. “You did. When you were six.”
She stares at me, confused and disbelieving. So that’s why she always stares at it. Because it represents Ross choosing someone else.
“You made it,” I repeat. “I promise.”
She’s still frowning when my hand goes to her arm.
“Let’s go back in,” I say gently, but she steps away, shaking her head.
“I’m going to go.” She folds her arms, retreating back into herself. “I’m tired.”
My eyes linger on her pretty face. I wish she wouldn’t. I wish she’d stay and tell me more things I was wrong about. “I’ll get you a ride.”
“No,” she rushes, that odd frown on her face. “I’ll grab a rideshare. Thanks.”
Without another word, she walks away, her dress moving around her feet, hair fluttering around her shoulders as she makes her way to the doors.
“Huh,” I hear Miller say nearby.
“Yeah.” That’s Volkov.
Ross skipped Natalie’s funeral and I thought Jordan was the heartless one.
I screwed up. Big time.
“Something on your mind, Coach?” Miller asks, and I yank my gaze to them.
Miller’s eyes are bright, his eyebrows lifted, and Volkov’s giving me a flat, knowing look.
“What?” I ask.
“You and Jordan?” Miller asks with a knowing smile.
At whatever my expression is, Miller smiles more.
My lips part to protest, but I can’t. I physically can’t lie about it, even when I need to. At the exit, Jordan says something to Dr. Greene.
I can’t be messing around with an employee, especially not Ross’s daughter who’s a decade younger than me. Optics aside, I should be focusing on my daughter and my team.
Even if it would be so good. Even if I would take that thick hair of hers, wrap it around my fist, and—
“You’re staring at her again,” Volkov says.
Fuck. I close my eyes and turn, giving her my back, and Miller looks delighted. I clear my throat. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t speculate about this further. It’s not a good look for the team, if something were to happen. Not that anything is happening.”
Miller shrugs, but he’s still smiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes. Exactly.” I exhale a heavy breath, glancing at Volkov, who’s frowning at me. “Volkov?”
He scowls. “I have better things to do than gossip about your personal life.”
I nod, satisfied. “Thank you both.”
“You bet.” Miller looks over to the women.
“You know what I love about Jordan? She pretends she can’t stand us, she pretends she hates hockey, but she always seems to expect us after games, like she knows our schedule.
And on special occasions, she’d put a special drink up on the board, something unique.
She made one for Hazel once. The Fire-Breathing Dragon. ”
“Jordan’s good people,” Volkov adds, keeping his eyes on the room. “She’s closed off and doesn’t trust people easily.” His gaze meets mine, serious and heavy. “Everyone needs a family, though.”
My shoulders tighten. “I’m aware.”
“Coach, you know we’d walk into the depths of hell for you,” Miller says. “We’re loyal to you and you’re the best coach we’ve ever had, but if you hurt Jordan, we’ll kick your ass.” He gives me a broad smile and claps me on the shoulder. “Good talk.”
Volkov grunts a low laugh, and they leave me standing there while they find their wives.
They care about her. They’re looking out for her.
Tomorrow, though, Jordan and I are going to talk, because I have some things to apologize for.