Chapter 55 Jordan
JORDAN
Ten minutes later, we’re seated at a table in the back of a tiny family-run Italian restaurant, complete with wood-paneled walls. Tate orders his usual soda water with lime and I order a glass of non-alcoholic red wine.
A few people look over, whispering, but they give us privacy, and somehow, in Tate’s presence, I don’t mind the stares.
“How’d you find this place?” I ask.
“Owens told me about it. He took Darcy here for her birthday a few years ago.”
This is exactly the kind of place a couple like them would frequent. Something intimate, cozy, and unpretentious. I bet the food is incredible. I can already smell garlic and something mouthwatering wafting from the open kitchen.
When I turn back to Tate, he’s giving me a funny look.
“What?” My fingers fly to my mouth. My lipstick is probably smeared up the side of my face.
“Nothing.” He blinks like he’s stunned. “You have a beautiful smile.”
Longing flashes through his eyes and he takes a deep breath. I don’t know what to say.
“When people pay you a compliment, Jordan,” his voice goes low and teasing as he leans forward on his elbow, eyes on me, “you say thank you.”
It’s warm in here. That’s why my face feels warm. “Thank you,” I say lightly.
“Very good.”
Heat rushes down my body, between my legs, and I think about waking up with him. I think about cuddling with him. If he isn’t interested, why did he challenge me to cuddle with him like that? Why did he relax under me?
I don’t know. I don’t know what we’re doing, both in general and here at the restaurant, having dinner. Silence lingers, but it’s not awkward. Butterflies go off in my stomach, but I’m comfortable.
“Do you miss hockey?” I ask. It’s a question I’ve been wondering about more and more lately, and a lot more appropriate and safe than the other question I want to ask:
Are you lonely, Tate?
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Why do you ask?”
“I see you on the ice with the guys during practice. You’re .
. .” I search for the right words, “exceptional. Still. You demonstrated that snap shot for the guys yesterday and they stared at you in awe, because, a decade later, you still have it, Tate. You retired so abruptly, and that must have been really hard.”
Probably how it’s going to feel once I leave the team after playoffs. Like my entire network, all my friends, are gone.
“I saw how you used to love the game,” I add.
He gives me an arch look, his eyes glittering. “Have you been watching my game tape, Jordan?”
I roll my eyes. “The team put a bunch of clips of you scoring goals in that PowerPoint.”
Tate laughs. “I’m well aware.”
“God.” I put my face in my hands. Tate knows the team was trying to set us up? “I’m so embarrassed.”
“You’re embarrassed? Jordan, they included pictures of the back of my head to show how I still have all my hair.”
I burst out laughing. “I didn’t get that far. Wow, that is embarrassing.”
“Meddlesome brats,” he says, shaking his head, eyes twinkling. God, he’s good looking. “All of them.”
“We should just trade them,” I say with a shrug.
“That’s a great idea, but unfortunately, I think we’re stuck with them.”
I narrow my eyes, but my heart jumps into my throat and a warm, tight, fizzy feeling moves through me.
He watches me. “Hockey isn’t my entire life.”
“No, it isn’t. Bea is. But you still love it.
I know you do.” I fall silent because I think I’ve said too much, and focus on playing with the edge of my napkin instead.
“And you don’t really have any peers anymore.
The guys, they all have each other. It’s a powerful thing, you know, to have a family like that. The team is a family.” I swallow hard.
“I have Ross,” he says. “And you.”
“Ross is your employer. And I’m your employee.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Are you lonely, Tate?
“Yes.” He takes a deep breath, holding my eyes. “I miss having a group of guys to mess around with. And I miss playing hockey.”
“Would you ever play with Rory and Hayden’s beer league?” Hazel’s mentioned it before, a recreational league with regular guys who just want to have fun.
He runs a hand through his thick hair with a sigh. “I don’t think so. It’s not really the same, if I’m holding back. Sorry, I’m not sure how to say that without being an asshole.”
“You’re not an asshole.” Just the opposite. “You’re one of the best players in history. It’s understandable.”
His eyebrows flick up. “Best players in history, huh?”
Oh my god. My crush is squeezing through the cracks. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Tate?”
He laughs. “No, and if I were, I sure as hell wouldn’t come to you.”
“Hey.” I act affronted. “I compliment people.”
“Rarely.” The way his mouth curves is very, very distracting. “It’s okay. It just means that much more when you do.” He leans back with a contented sigh. “Best player in history.”
“I said one of the best.”
He grins, and a comfortable silence falls between us once again. My mind strays back to what he said though, about missing hockey. I bet Alexei does, too. Coaching just isn’t the same.
I get an idea. It’s a tiny kernel, a minuscule spark of brain cells talking to each other, but it spreads like a spiderweb through my brain.
“What’s that look?” he asks with a smile.
“You never really do anything for yourself, do you?”
He holds my eyes, swallowing, like he’s taken aback by my question. “Sure, I do. I eat pizza on the weekends with Bea.”
“You sick fucking pervert.”
He shakes with laughter, and I love it. I love making him laugh like that, like he can’t help himself. “I knew I shouldn’t have divulged my dirty secret to you.”
“What else?”
He looks up at the ceiling, thinking. “I don’t know, Jordan. It’s hard. I have a kid. She needs to be my everything, right now.”
I study him, tapping my chin and narrowing my eyes.
“Are you trying to be me right now?” he asks, amused.
“Is it working?”
“You’re a brat, you know that?”
My stomach does a pleasant roll. “You’ve mentioned it a few times.”
He’s so handsome, in the low firelight, all dark hair and eyes and strong nose. Watching and listening to me like I’m important to him, too.
“Aren’t you worth having some fun?” I ask softly. “Aren’t you worth taking care of?”
“I’ve had enough fun,” he says like it’s case closed.
He’s so tightly controlled. He has everything held together, but I think deep down, he’s tired. Tate takes care of everyone, watches out for everyone, but who takes care of him?
I think about the other night, the indulgent noise he made when we cuddled, like he was finally letting himself have something.
Wishful thinking, I remind myself, even if it doesn’t seem like it. I’m trying to see something where there’s nothing. He said it himself—his daughter is everything.
“My turn,” he says abruptly. “Would you ever finish your master’s?”
His question jars me and I blink, gathering my thoughts. “Um. I don’t know.” He waits while I think. “I don’t think so. There isn’t really a point. I’m going back to the bar after this.”
He studies me like this makes him unhappy. “Still set on that, huh?”
“Yes.” Leave them before they leave you. Do not get attached to a group of people who only value you for what you can do for them.
They don’t love me. They love what I can do for them. And the second I’m no longer useful, I’m on the outs.
My old mantras gnaw at me, though. The things I’ve been telling myself for a decade. They don’t feel so true anymore. Why would the team try to set me up with Tate if they didn’t care about me? Why would they go to all this trouble for something that doesn’t benefit them?
“I wish you’d reconsider,” Tate says quietly. “I think you’re great in this role.”
It’s so easy to keep the world at arm’s length, and then Tate looks at me like that, so soft and gentle, and says things like I wish you’d reconsider, and I do.
I can’t help it. I picture myself staying with the team and get that fluttery, longing feeling in my stomach.
I picture more lunches with my dad, which aren’t as bad as I would have thought.
We stick to safe topics like the team and the league, but I always return to work feeling lighter.
And now I’m thinking about waking up with Tate again, and how handsome he looked. How handsome he looks right now, so close I could reach out and run my fingers through his hair.
I want to kiss him.
“I have the amatriciana,” the server says, and we break eye contact as she places the plate of pasta in front of me, “and the margherita.”
We thank her, she disappears, and Tate picks up a slice of pizza and takes a big bite. I can’t help but stare at the way his eyelids dip with pleasure. The noise that comes out of his throat is pure sin and sex.
“Say it,” I prompt, my mouth tipping into a smile.
He smiles. “Fuck, that’s good.”
I grin down at my plate, my face going warm with pleasure. Something about Tate Ward enjoying himself is so gratifying.
“How’s yours?” he asks after I take a bite.
“Amazing. You want some?”
He nods, and I twirl the noodles on my fork before holding it out to him. Instead of taking the fork, though, he parts his lips, holds my eyes, and eats the pasta right off my fork.
How is this so familiar and comfortable and yet so intensely hot at the same time?
“Good?” I ask, my voice sounding strange and tight.
“Fucking excellent,” he says, holding my eyes like he wants more.