Chapter 35 Jordan
JORDAN
When I step on the plane to head home after our away game trip, something is off.
Players look away pointedly when I walk down the aisle with my carry-on.
We don’t fill the entire plane, normally, so a lot of people get seats to themselves. Today, every seat is taken. Not by players, though.
By . . . stuff. Bags that should be in the cargo hold beneath the plane. Hockey gear. Guys taking up two seats, already asleep.
There’s nowhere for me to sit. My eyes narrow.
“Walker.” I nudge his shoulder. He’s sitting in the nearest aisle seat, stretched out with his ball cap pulled low over his closed eyes. The window seat has his hockey gear bag on it. “Move your bag.”
He doesn’t move.
“Rookie.” I give his face a few light slaps, and I swear his mouth tightens like he’s trying not to smile. “Are you pretending to be asleep?”
“No,” he says.
“Ah!” I poke him in the ribs and he starts laughing. “You are. Move your bag, I’m going to sit there. You can practice your flirting skills with me on the flight.”
He makes a low snoring noise that is totally fucking fake.
“Hey, Jordan.” Rory appears with a big smile. “What’s the problem?”
“There’s no empty seats and the Rookie is pretending to be asleep.”
He makes a sympathetic noise and nods. “He’s tuckered out from the game last night. We all are.” He gestures around to a bunch of guys taking up two seats.
“Volkov.” In a nearby seat, Alexei looks tense and uncomfortable. Even more than normal. His gaze flicks to me, startled, before going back to his screen. “Move your bag.”
“Can’t.” He keeps his eyes forward on the screen.
“Why not?” I’m getting frustrated.
“There’s a present for Georgia in there. I have to keep it safe.” His voice is tight and strange, and he won’t look me in the eye.
Like he’s lying.
“What is it?” I raise my eyebrows, stepping closer, lasering his face with my eyes.
He pauses. “Flowers,” he mumbles.
No. His mother is a florist, and he would rather die than put flowers in his bag and risk crushing them.
“What kind?”
His eyes dart to mine, then away.
I point a finger at him. “Liar.”
“Okay, now.” Rory gently steers me away. “Jordan, there’s a seat back there.” He points a few rows back. “Next to Coach.”
The bad feeling in my stomach flips as people glance over at me. Rory’s eyes sparkle. I think I know what’s happening here.
“Miller.” I keep my voice low and deadly. “What are you doing?”
He smiles like the meddling little fuck he is. “Helping you to your seat.”
Despite trying not to, I still have a crush on Tate. Very good, he said last night through email, and I’m embarrassed at how many times I’ve re-read it.
But I haven’t told anyone, and I don’t plan to. It feels like the team is conspiring to set us up, though. Can they tell? Is it that obvious?
Maybe I’m being paranoid.
I feel the eyes of everyone as I make my way to the only empty seat on the plane. Everyone except Tate, who’s focused on his laptop.
“Hi,” he says, looking up as I drop into my seat.
“Hi.” I gesture around. “Were you aware of this?”
He frowns. “Aware of what?”
Oh. He doesn’t know. And I’m not going to bring it up to him so he can laugh in my face.
A couple rows ahead, Luca is hanging over the back of his seat, talking with Hayden and Rory. Not sleeping.
I’m so going to put hot sauce in his drink next time he’s at the bar.
“Nothing,” I tell Tate, pulling out my own laptop to review last night’s game tape. “Nothing at all.”
Later in the flight, I receive an email from Tate’s admin, and I have to read it a few times to make sure I’m not seeing things.
Gary Horchuk Exit Papers, the subject line reads.
“Did Gary quit?” I ask Tate.
His eyes flick to mine and I think about his expression at the end of dinner last night. He held his expression so tightly controlled. He was struggling with something, and he was weird after in the elevator.
“Something like that,” he says.
“So Gary the Fuckhead would rather quit than work with me.” Great. I’m sure the scouts hate me now.
“No.” Something dark flashes in his eyes. “I let him go.”
I’m not breathing. “You fired him?”
He turns back to his laptop and takes a deep breath like he’s weighing his words with care. “I no longer felt that Gary the Fuckhead was a positive contributor to this organization.”
I’m frozen.
“Anything else?” he asks.
I shake my head, speechless.
“You find a new bar manager yet?”
I nod. She started a few days ago.
“Good.” He sounds pleased, and restarts the game he was watching.
We don’t talk for the rest of the ride home.