Chapter 33 Jordan
JORDAN
It’s late when there’s a knock at the door of my guesthouse.
“Hi,” Tate says when I open the door before he smiles at the Dunkaroos in my hand. “She’s still bringing you those?”
I try not to look sheepish. “I bought these. I told Bea she doesn’t need to give hers to me and that she can have them anytime here.” Something occurs to me. “Sorry, I don’t know if that’s okay. I should have asked you first—”
“It’s fine,” he says with a funny look on his face. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“It’s not completely out of character for me to think about someone other than myself.”
But after last night, after he basically told me I was selfish and heartless for putting up a boundary with my father, maybe this is surprising to him.
His mouth flattens. “That’s not what I meant.”
“She was reading here this morning and I thought she might want a snack,” I say in a rush.
“Again.” He takes a step into the guesthouse, closing the door behind him so the cold air doesn’t come in. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful. And I’m not surprised at all, because Bea brings this out in everyone she meets.”
My heart does a tug of affection as I think about the shy way Bea asked if she could read in here this morning, the cat right behind her.
“She’s very cute,” I say, stupidly self-conscious again.
“She is.”
He looks pleased, and there’s a beat of silence between us.
“The cat brought me something,” he says, clearing his throat. His cheekbones are going pink. “And I wanted to return it to you.”
“Something of mine?”
He holds his hand out and there’s a crumpled piece of lacy navy blue fabric in his palm that makes my stomach drop through the floor.
“Oh my god.”
My panties are in Tate’s hand. They’re clean, thank fuck. I haven’t worn that pair yet.
“The cat brought you these?” I should take them, but I can’t move. I’m just staring at them.
The image of Phoebe batting at my bra last weekend as I pulled it out of the bag to taunt him flashes into my mind.
“Yes.” He sounds deeply uncomfortable as he places them on the counter. “I was going to throw them out but didn’t want you to find them in the garbage and think . . . Yeah. I don’t know.”
The mortified tone of his voice makes that playful part of me sit up. “And think what?”
He stills. “I don’t know.”
I smirk. “What would you be doing with my panties?”
His eyes widen. “Nothing. I wouldn’t do anything with your panties. Oh my god.” He rubs the bridge of his nose while I start laughing. “Jordan. They were expensive. I didn’t want to throw them out.”
“How do you know the price?”
He blanches before he regains control. “Okay, very funny.”
That’s not an answer, and he hates lying, so now I feel like there’s something he’s not telling me.
“There was something else I wanted to talk to you about,” he says, and the sober tone of his voice dampens any amusement. “Last night.”
Unease settles in my stomach. “I stand by what I said,” I start, staring at the floor. “I’m not going to put myself out there for someone—”
“I’m sorry.” He holds my eyes as I fall silent. “I was wrong. I was wrong about you, and I was wrong about Ross.”
I don’t know what to say. This, I didn’t expect.
“Things weren’t the way I thought,” he continues, “and I made a lot of assumptions. I agree with you, that a relationship should be give and take. I spent a long time hoping my dad would act a certain way and he never did.” His words sound truly neutral, like he’s had time to process and accept this.
Like he harbors no anger. My curiosity about Tate Ward grows, gathering strength.
What’s that like, to accept that the person who is supposed to love you doesn’t? Tate has his life so together. Maybe if he can, I can, too.
“I didn’t know that,” I say quietly.
He nods. “So I understand your anger now.” He takes a deep breath, hesitating. “I talked to Ross.”
“You did? Why?”
“Because I was angry, Jordan.” His eyes flicker with emotion. “All this time, I looked up to him. If Bea needed me, I would move heaven and earth to be there for her.”
“I know you would.” Damn him for being so good. My respect for him grows.
“Did you know he missed Natalie’s funeral because he was bringing me to rehab?”
Like a house of cards, my thoughts collapse, flattening. I blink at Tate.
“That’s a no, I’m guessing. Me neither. I don’t think this changes things, though, Jordan.
I could have gone to rehab one day later.
I could have gone a week later and it wouldn’t have made a difference.
” He watches me very intently. “I know this is hard to hear, but I want you to know my side of things. I found out Bea was coming, I called Ross for help, and the next morning, he was at my door, telling me to pack my things. But I also think that was a way for him to avoid the funeral.”
I stand there, frozen. Thinking. Processing. Tate’s right—this doesn’t change anything, but I do wonder why my father avoided her funeral. I’ve wondered it a thousand times in the last decade.
“I’m sorry,” he adds.
“You said that already. Twice.”
“Well, I don’t like delivering bad news.” His eyebrows lift. “And I don’t like being wrong about people.”
He studies me like he sees me differently now, but what does he see? A thread of worry makes its way through me, twisting and weaving. There was safety in Tate’s low expectation of me. It kept a nice, healthy chasm between us.
And now? Now, I don’t know.
He searches my eyes. “Why did everyone think you hated hockey, Jordan?”
My thoughts are still flattened and mixed up from his earlier revelation, but I try to put them back together, organize them and stack them neatly.
Hockey meant belonging, and I never belonged.
“Bad memories,” I admit. “That was how I tried to get my dad’s time and attention, growing up.” It’s easier to tell Tate these things I’ve never told anyone, after our argument last night. After I laid it all out on the line.
And even more, I trust him. The way he’s looking at me right now, the same way he looked at me when I cried in the closet, I know he’d never use this against me.
“Going to games,” I continue, “wearing his jersey, watching games at home with him even though he was barely paying attention to me.”
And then all the stuff with my master’s, watching the women play and going out to their team events and pouring them free drinks at the bar I worked at on weekends.
“It was easier not to think about it.”
Hockey was a reminder of rejection. He listens, waiting for more.
“But that’s not so easy in a city like Vancouver.” The fans here are obsessed. “And I tried to get rid of those Storm boys.” I shake my head, sadly. Tate smiles and I do, too. “They kept coming back.”
“When they find someone they like, they don’t let go.”
“Or a place,” I add, because it’s not me. It’s the drinks and the private atmosphere of the bar, where they can relax.
“Or,” Tate says, holding my eyes intently, “someone. You should have heard what Miller and Volkov—”
He cuts himself off with a quick shake of his head.
“What?”
“Nothing.” His eyes go to my half-finished pack of Dunkaroos. “I should let you get back to your snack.”
Something jumps in my chest. I’m not ready for him to leave. I walk to the box on the counter and pull one out before handing it to him.
“For the road.”
“That’s very generous,” he smiles, “but no, thank you.”
I think about the noise he made when he had some of that marshmallow drink. “Come on. Help me finish mine, at least.”
“I’m good.” He takes a step back, and I take a step toward him.
“Just one little cookie.”
“Really. I can’t. Thank you, though.”
“What’s the matter, worried about your eight-pack?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Eight-pack?”
I’m so transparent, I’m practically see-through. I hold my expression aloof, even though I can feel heat spreading over my face. “Sorry, did I count wrong? Do you actually have a ten-pack?”
If anyone could, it would be him.
His eyes are bright. “It’s interesting that you’re counting at all.”
Something electric crackles between us, and I take one coin-sized cookie and dip it through the sprinkle icing before holding it in the air.
“Eat the cookie, Tate.”
He stares at it like he’s struggling and I inch it toward his mouth. His throat works.
His gaze lifts to meet mine and he leans forward half an inch, parts his lips, and takes the cookie right out of my fingers.
His lips brush my fingertips and the contact rips through me, down my spine and landing low in my belly.
His eyes close and he lets out a low, agonized groan that I’m going to be thinking about all night.
“Holy fuck, that’s so good,” he murmurs, and I picture things I shouldn’t. Him standing above me, eyes closed, groaning like that, head thrown back as he pushes into my mouth.
“Okay, well, glad you enjoyed it.” Heat thrums between my legs. “Goodnight.”
He gives me an odd look. “Everything okay?”
“Mhm.” My voice is way too high. “Everything’s great. I’m just tired. Really tired.”
And turned on.
“Alright.” He reaches for the door and pauses, gaze snagging on something on the floor. “You bought Phoebe a toy.”
The stupid little stick with a feather on it lies beside my shoes, untouched.
I wiggled it around in front of her this morning while she looked at me with disdain, like she was embarrassed for me.
Self-consciousness creeps up the back of my neck.
I don’t know why I keep setting myself up for rejection with that little dumpster cat.
“It was free at the grocery store with a certain purchase amount.”
I’m lying. It was seven dollars. I wandered down the pet aisle and stared at the toys for almost ten minutes before I picked this one.
“She doesn’t like it, anyway,” I say, picking at my nail. “She turned her nose up at it.” My gaze slides to the panties Tate brought me. The panties Tate was touching. My god. “And obviously she retaliated.”
He chuckles, and it goes to some warm place behind my ribcage. He has a nice laugh. And smile. And eyes. And face.
“Keep trying,” he says, eyes on my face. “Maybe she’ll surprise you.”
I’ve detested all the nice things about him, and yet, right now? I don’t know. I don’t know anything, anymore. I’m thinking about him too much these days.
“All set for Seattle?” he asks. We fly out tomorrow morning and meet with Yang-Hanson for a skate in the afternoon. Dinner afterwards. “Have everything you need?”
“I got the luggage that was delivered this morning, yes.” Three pieces, more than I would ever need, including a large suitcase, a small carry-on, and a weekender bag. “I think we can stop spending the team’s money. It’s not a good look.”
Especially when I take off after the playoffs.
“The team takes care of their own, Jordan.”
A strange energy lingers between us. We’re holding each other’s eyes, and my stomach does that annoying dipping thing that always happens in moments like these.
“Okay, goodnight.” I press a hand to his back to urge him out the door. “And thanks for the panties.”
I close the door and make a face of horror at myself. Thanks for the panties? I’m always so cool and clear-headed when talking to men. Not scattered and flustered like this. What is wrong with me?
Oh.
Oh no.
I stare at the panties on the counter, my heart pounding, a growing, horrible realization spreading through me.
I have a crush on Tate Ward.