Chapter 34 Tate
TATE
The next evening, the hunch I had proves to be correct: Jordan is right about Yang-Hanson.
Volkov likes him. Miller likes him. He’s personable, easygoing, and a spectacular hockey player. He’ll be a great fit for the Storm.
Across the table in the restaurant’s private dining room, Jordan listens to the conversation as dinner wraps up, not saying much but looking proud of herself.
When she excuses herself to use the ladies’ room, I watch her walk away in that deep indigo blue dress that brings out the color of her eyes and makes her hair look a richer brown.
Christ, she’s lovely.
I wonder if she’s wearing those blue panties I set on her counter. I wonder if she’s thinking about the moment I ate the cookie from her fingers, when our eye contact zinged down my spine.
Her fingertips brushed my lips, and I can’t stop replaying it.
“Question for you, Coach.” The prospect leans in, lowering his voice.
Thanks for the panties, she said, and I stared at my ceiling half the night, laughing about it.
“Is Jordan single?”
A sharp, tense feeling tightens through me. He glances between me and the doorway Jordan disappeared through moments ago.
“No.” What? “She’s not.”
Liar, my brain shouts. Fucking selfish liar.
I never lie. It makes me feel sick. My father hurt my mom and brother with his lies. Right now, though, I don’t like the idea of this guy making plans to ask Jordan out.
His mouth tilts in a disappointed smile. “Too bad. Is it serious?”
“Yes.” The word comes out short and sharp. “Very.”
Holy fuck. It’s like I can’t stop. A bad feeling fills my stomach. I hate this. I hate being out of control. Memories of the recycling overflowing with too many empties fill my mind. Losing blocks of time because I was blackout drunk.
“I figured.” He shrugs. “Just thought I’d check.”
“Good thing you did.” Again, my tone is sharp and firm. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for someone in management to date a player, anyway.”
We can’t bring this guy on the Storm. He’s going to find out Jordan is single and—
No. I’m not doing this. I’m not making trade decisions based on my weird little whatever feelings about Jordan. This is so far over the line, there’s no way I can justify it.
That old, ugly urge trickles down the back of my neck. A drink would make all of this better. I acknowledge the desire to drink and take note of my surroundings—the conversation around me, the floor under my feet, the pull of my shirt across my shoulders, the cold water as I take a sip.
Across the table, Volkov and Miller watch with curious expressions. Did they hear our conversation? After what they said at the benefit on Friday, I hope not.
Jordan reenters the room and our eyes meet. My nerves settle. Everything is fine, once again. The urge passes.
Later, after I’ve paid the check, we all stand.
“Thank you for dinner,” Yang-Hanson says, shaking all of our hands.
“Thanks for meeting with us on short notice,” I add.
“Gentlemen.” He nods at them before smiling at Jordan. “Jordan. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
It irritates me, how he singles her out, and I don’t feel as guilty about lying earlier.
Yang-Hanson leaves the hotel with one last glance over his shoulder at Jordan, and the rest of us move to the elevators to head up to our rooms. Miller and Volkov exit at a lower floor, say goodnight, and Jordan and I are left alone as the elevator ascends.
I follow the lines of her hips, her legs. Her heels. The fascinating line of the nape of her neck, hair tied up and bangs scattered around her eyes. My gaze falls to the base of her neck. Bare, cream skin smooth and intriguing. Something hooks in my mind, though. Something’s missing.
Jewelry. She’s not wearing any.
“Tate?” she asks, like I didn’t hear her the first time.
“Hmm?”
“What did you think?”
“Of what.” Jesus. My brain is an engine that won’t start.
She gives me another strange look. “Yang-Hanson.”
Right.
“Miller seemed to like him,” she says, “and Volkov didn’t look like he wanted to murder him. So that’s a good sign.”
A knot forms in my throat. “I’m not sure about him.”
She frowns. “Really?”
I fold my arms, staring straight ahead. I am lying, jealous scum. “He’s too confident.”
A long pause. I caution a glance at her. Her expression is startled and confused, like it’s the last thing she expected me to say. Like she thought we were on the same page. Like she was wrong.
Guilt shoots through me. I tell her I believe in her and that she belongs with the team, and now I’m lying to her and sending mixed messages.
The elevator doors open on our floor, and before I can apologize, she walks out.
“You’re wrong,” she says over her shoulder as she opens her hotel room door and disappears inside.
Ten minutes later, I open my laptop and send Jordan an email.
What do you propose we offer Seattle for Yang-Hanson?
In less than a minute, my email chimes with her response.
They’re in a rebuild phase. Offer a first-round draft pick and Jayden Kumar from the farm team. He’s good enough to go pro in a season or two but we already have a few guys who serve his purpose. This gives them room to negotiate up.
I smile at my computer. Very good, I respond, and I can practically sense her satisfaction through the hotel room walls.