Chapter 53 Jordan
JORDAN
“What’s up with you tonight?” Georgia asks as we wait in the area between the dressing room and bench while the players finish their pre-game routines. It’s Colworth’s first game with the team.
She gives me a sidelong look, narrowing her eyes. “You’re cranky.”
I chew my lip, scanning the area. Tate had to run up to his office to grab something for the game.
“I slept in Tate’s bed.”
“WHAT?” she yells before she claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.” She takes a deep breath. “Okay. What?”
It’s been three days, and Tate and I have acted like it didn’t happen.
“We were watching TV,” I say uselessly, not meeting her eyes. “And then we fell asleep.”
She moves her face into my line of sight, eyes boring into mine, and I start laughing against my will.
“And we cuddled,” I admit, wincing, and she closes her eyes, smiling.
“Mmmm.” She nods sagely. “Interesting.”
“Shut up.”
“Uh-huh.”
My face is probably beet red.
“And how was it?” Georgia asks. “The cuddling?”
I’m way too warm under my jacket.
It was one of the best physical experiences of my life. Deeply comforting. I keep thinking about how his chest felt, his steady heartbeat. The way he seemed to relax under me.
He doesn’t sleep well, I think, but he did when I was there.
I don’t know what we’re doing.
“I just want to focus on the game,” I say, as the self-conscious feelings rise.
She studies me before pulling out her phone. “While we’re waiting, there’s something I wanted to show you.”
She opens her social media app. My stomach drops through the floor, and I grab the phone to look closer.
It’s a photo of me leaving the arena. Maybe last week? I was grabbing a late lunch before the game. I’m wearing a long pencil skirt, crisp striped shirt, and heels. My hair’s up in a sleek ponytail. I look . . . professional.
And kind of hot.
Jordan Hathaway looking the part of future owner of the Vancouver Storm, the caption reads.
“What is this?” I go to the account’s main page, scrolling through the photos.
There’s a woman in a navy suit, sitting courtside at a basketball game.
Another woman on the sidelines at a football game, wearing a windbreaker.
A woman at a press conference. The new Vancouver women’s hockey team coach at an event.
“It’s an account for women in sports,” Georgia says as I hand her phone back.
“Why am I on there?”
She smiles. “Because you’re a role model.”
I blanch. “No, I’m not.”
“You are, Jordan. Whether you want to be or not. There’s a lot of young women looking up to you.”
This should scare me. It should make me uncomfortable that people are watching.
Instead, my motivation to get the Storm to the Stanley Cup grows. Let them watch, because I’m doing everything I can to win.
It’s the end of the first period when my father takes the empty seat beside me in the area between the dressing room and the bench. Everyone goes quiet for a moment before the light chatter resumes.
They’re getting used to him being around more. I wish I could say the same.
“Good evening, Jordan,” my father says, keeping his eyes on the TV showing the game, his tone friendly and polite, like he’s greeting a colleague.
“Hi.” I watch the game, seeing nothing.
“How are things going?”
“Good. Colworth is playing well—”
He turns to me with a small smile, like I’ve done something cute. It makes him look younger, like the dad I grew up with. I don’t like the sharp yank in my chest.
“This isn’t a morning call. How are things going for you? How do you like working with the team?”
“Oh. Um.” I nod. “Yeah, it’s good.”
He waits.
“It’s interesting, shadowing Tate and learning how much he does for the team. He’s in a unique position, acting as both the coach and GM.”
He nods. “He wanted me to hire a GM.”
I think about how he’s always either working or with Bea. “He has a lot going on. Not that he can’t handle it,” I rush to add. “He’s the best coach in the league.”
Embarrassment singes up the back of my neck, like I’ve shown my cards.
Ross studies me for a long time. “You didn’t really answer my question. Do you like working for the team?”
“Yes, I like it.” I want to lie, but it feels wrong.
“Good.”
“I’m going to give the team to Tate.” The words fall out of me. “When we win playoffs.”
He takes a deep breath. “That’s your choice.” I didn’t mean to tell him, but here we are.
“He’s the best person for the job.”
He makes a thoughtful noise, and we spend two minutes in silence, watching the game.
“I don’t know you anymore, Jordan,” he finally says, not looking at me.
“I don’t know what you do when you’re not working.
I don’t know what you watch on TV. I don’t know your favorite meal or what makes you laugh.
” He clears his throat. “I have no one to blame but myself, but forgive me for trying.”
I think about what Tate said, how if Bea didn’t talk to him, he’d never stop trying.
“I listen to music. A lot.” I swallow. It’s about to all come spilling out, I can feel it. “All the stuff Mom used to play, seventies rock mostly but some disco, too, which is kind of dorky but it’s happy music. I have her old record player.”
He gives me a wistful smile. “You still have that thing?”
“It’s my most prized possession.”
His eyes, they look . . . not sad. Not hurt. Just—full of emotion. Full of memories.
“I listen to that old stuff, too. Reminds me of your mom and you dancing around in the kitchen.”
We’d do that when he wasn’t there, so I don’t know how he remembers that.
“There were a few times, I’d get home early,” he continues, like he can read my thoughts.
“Not often.”
“No.” He goes quiet. “Not often enough, that’s for sure.”
Why? I want to ask. Why weren’t you around? Why didn’t you choose us?
I don’t forgive him, and yet a tiny part of me wants to. I see the sad look in his eyes and I fall for it. I want to let the past go and move on.
I know better than to trust him again, but I don’t revel in this guilt he feels.
And I want to ask about the summer house. Does he still own it, or did he sell it? If he sold it and it got knocked down, replaced by some ugly behemoth, I’d just die.
“Thanks for the chat, Jordan.” He stands, not meeting my eyes. “It made my week.”
He’s gone before I can say anything else.