Chapter 44
JORDAN
A week later, I walk into the presentation room where we show the players game tape that the analysts and video coach pull in preparation for games.
Tate’s not here yet, thank god.
It’s never going to happen, he said about being attracted to me. It’s been seven days of avoiding him, and I still feel the hot sear of mortification, thinking about it.
“J-dawg.” Luca waves me over. “Right here. Got an open seat with your name on it.”
“You’re chipper this morning,” I tell him, dropping into the chair.
“I heard you’re looking at one of my buddies for the team, Colworth.”
A prospect that Tate and I are flying out tomorrow morning to speak with.
“Right.” I study Luca. “I forgot you went to the same university. What do you think of the guy?”
“Great player. Sharp backcheck. Makes one hell of a beergarita.”
My expression falls. “No. The beergarita, Rookie? Really?”
“They’re delicious.”
“They’re disgusting.” A sickly-sweet concoction of frozen limeade mix, Corona beer, and tequila. I turn back to the screen. “And if you ever order one in my bar, I’ll throw you out.”
“You don’t work there anymore.”
“It’s still my bar.”
He chuckles. “Okay, but Colworth is a solid guy, even if he has been in school for like, a decade.”
Seven years, but I didn’t mention that part to Tate when suggesting him.
“Super loyal and will do anything for his team, you know?”
Exactly the kind of player who would fit in with the Storm.
“Hey, everyone.” Rory steps up to the podium, where Tate normally runs the meeting. “Let’s start.”
“Let’s wait until Tate gets here,” I tell him. I may be avoiding him, but he’s still the coach.
Alexei clears his throat in the row behind me. “He said he’d be late.”
I frown. Tate’s never late. The Japanese transit system probably has a framed picture of him at their head office, for how unfailingly on-time he is.
Rory hits play on the laptop and game tape starts, but it isn’t the Storm, and it isn’t recent. It’s old footage from some minors game.
“Let’s take a look at this game from the Storm’s farm team back in 2004. Look at that center glide across the ice.”
The player takes the puck up the ice, skating with powerful strokes, before he effortlessly flicks the puck into the net and the arena cheers.
WARD is on the back of his jersey. Around the room, guys glance over at me, watching my reaction, and my mouth flattens. It’s like the plane, all over again.
Who sent this meeting invite? It wasn’t Tate’s admin, who usually sets them up.
I check my phone. It was Rory.
Huh.
Okay. I see what’s happening here. I thought I was better this week. I barely look at Tate, let alone talk to him.
“Now that guy can play hockey,” Rory says, watching me out of the corner of his eye. “That player sure is going places. Such skill. Such talent.”
Beside me, Luca raises his hand. “Excuse me, Rory? Is that Coach Ward, by any chance?”
I give him a look. “Why are you talking like you’re on a bad sitcom from the nineties?”
“Wow. You know what?” Rory scratches his head, and I roll my eyes. He’s an even worse actor. “I think it is. Huh. What an amazing hockey player Tate Ward is. Let’s see what other clips I have.”
Subtle like a battering ram, Tate once said about me, but has he met these guys?
Rory clicks to the next slide. It’s a clip of the gold medal Olympics game, and yep, there’s Tate, bringing the puck up the ice and scoring the winning goal.
I remember that moment, because my dad was on the bench, coaching.
The entire country lost their minds. People poured into the streets, high-fiving and hugging and cheering.
Rory whistles. “Look at that golden goal.”
“What a guy,” Hayden says, shaking his head but looking at me. “A Canadian hero.”
I glare at him with death eyes. Beside him, Jamie Streicher shifts, looking uncomfortable. Hayden elbows him.
“He’s very good,” Jamie mutters, not meeting my eye.
Hayden whispers something in his ear and Jamie frowns at him and shakes his head. Hayden gives him a look and Jamie sighs.
“He’s a great father and would be a fantastic husband,” Jamie says like he’s at gunpoint.
I fight the urge to laugh, shaking my head at him, disappointed, and he looks away.
“Now, this goal.” Rory clicks to the next clip. It’s Tate winning the Stanley Cup, shooting the puck into the back of the other team’s net while the arena explodes and the rest of the Storm pile onto the ice. “This is the kind of goal that makes Tate Ward the best player of his generation.”
“And so good-looking,” someone calls.
Rory points at him. “Tate Ward is extremely handsome. Case in point.”
He flips to the next slide. It’s the GQ spread I was reading to Tate in the bar two months ago.
“It’s not just his undeniable good looks that make him the most beloved Storm coach in franchise history,” Rory reads, and I get up, ready to leave, “it’s the way he’s more devoted to his team than anything that has every member of the organization deeply loyal to the eligible single father. Jordan, wait.”
Hayden makes a hurry up gesture to Rory and he clicks to the next slide.
“Tate Ward is so freaking cool!” the slide reads with a picture from some event of Tate in a tux, looking dashing. “He can bench press a lot. I bet he would make a great boyfriend. And look at that head of hair!—Luca ‘The Rookie’ Walker.”
“What are you doing?” I ask them, making my way to the aisle. “Why are you doing this? Are you trying to embarrass me or something?”
“What?” Rory blanches. “No, of course not. We just think you and Coach would be great together. You have a serious vibe.”
“We work together. There’s no vibe.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” Hayden says. “It’s no one’s business except all of ours.”
If I weren’t so embarrassed and frustrated, I would laugh. “It’s no one’s business except mine and Tate’s. Not that there’s anything to have business about. I don’t want this,” I tell them, like Tate told me. “It’s never going to happen.”
“We want you to be happy,” Luca says, giving me puppy dog eyes, and I think he’s actually being sincere.
“I am happy,” I tell them. “Please stop meddling. Focus on your own love lives.” On my way out of the room, I catch Alexei’s eye. He looks guilty. “I expected better of you, Volkov.”