Chapter 58
JORDAN
When it’s time for Bea to go to bed, she insists that I accompany them upstairs. I linger in her bedroom doorway while Tate drops a kiss onto her forehead, and she glances between me and him.
“You won’t let her go home until the power goes on, right?”
I can’t see his expression, but he pauses before he nods. “I won’t let her go home until the power goes on.”
“Goodnight, Jordan,” Bea says.
“Goodnight.” I give her a small smile.
Tate turns her bedside light off and closes her bedroom door behind us.
“Thanks for that, tonight,” he says in a low voice as we make our way down the stairs. “I know there’s probably a long list of things you’d rather be doing.”
“There isn’t,” I say before I can catch myself, but it’s the truth. “I like Bea. I like hanging out with her. She’s fun.”
He smiles to himself. “Yeah. She is.”
Downstairs, he settles back onto the sofa, tucking his hands behind his head in a way that makes his biceps the center of attention. “I think we can spare the power for a few more songs, if you want to keep playing music.”
“Or we could watch a movie.” I adopt an innocent expression. “There’s a new one out I think you might like.”
He gives me a flat look, but his eyes are twinkling. “Does it have a murderer or ghost?”
“Neither.” I wait a beat. “It’s a possessed doll.”
A pillow flies at my face, and I laugh. Since we kissed, things have been weird. Every time our eyes meet, I think about it. I think about the way his lips felt, the way he kissed me like I was exactly what he needed. How he unraveled, being selfish and taking for himself.
I think about that part a lot.
“Jordan?”
I snap back to reality. An unfortunate reality where we are definitely not kissing anymore. “Mmm?”
“Are you cold?” He tilts his chin at me, where I’m clutching my arms at my sides. Before I can answer, he disappears back upstairs, returning with a sweater and handing it to me.
It’s a soft navy blue crewneck sweatshirt that feels well-worn and loved. Vancouver Storm Training Camp 2006 is written across the back around the Storm logo in fading letters.
“Put it on,” he says in a firm tone, eyebrows raised, and when I tug it over my head, his scent surrounds me. The same scent I’ve been trying to ignore all week, because it reminds me of his hands in my hair and his groan of pleasure.
“Thanks.” I don’t meet his eyes as I set up another record and return to my spot. Between songs, we can hear the low drumming of the rain outside.
He studies me, toned biceps distracting me. “Do you need anything, over there?”
Yes, I want to say. I want to touch you. I want to crawl onto your lap and run my fingers through your hair and see how you’d react. I want to kiss you and learn what you taste like. Maybe I can get another one of those groans out of you.
Instead, I shake my head. His eyes skate over me in the crewneck and my scalp prickles with the weight of his attention. His broad chest rises and falls with a deep breath, like he’s in pain.
“Do you want it back?” I ask, starting to pull it off.
“No.” The word rushes out of him and he laughs, shoving a hand through his hair. “No, I like the way you look in it.”
Something flutters in my stomach. Butterflies. Thirty years old and I’m finally feeling it for the first time. Electricity snaps in the air, strung between our gazes, and it’s hard to get a full breath. God, he’s handsome.
There’s that zing again, that sweet, fizzing feeling of lightness and excitement in my chest that keeps happening when he looks at me with that funny smile, like I’m adorable or something. Like he actually likes me. My heart gives an annoying tug.
He studies me. “You’re beautiful.”
My pulse jumps into my throat. I’ve heard those words before and they’ve always felt so empty, so meaningless, but from a guy like Tate? Who clearly doesn’t want to like me?
Those words warm me head to toe.
“Tate.” I stare at the floor. If I look at him, I’m going to do something dumb.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“You were right.” I force myself to meet his gaze. “What you said about me staying with the team. I’m thinking about it.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with a small frown.
“I, um.” I tug a hand through my hair. “I was going to give you the team if we won the Cup. I still am.”
His eyes turn alarmed. “Why?”
“You’re kidding, right? What am I going to do with a hockey team?”
“Run it,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Own it and run it, like Grace Madueke does.”
“That’s not me.” I shake my head, pressing my hands to my temples. “You’re the best person for the job.”
He leans forward. “Jordan. Look at how much you’ve learned in just a couple months. Think of what you could do in a year. In five years. And I’m here. I’ll be right by your side, every step of the way, for whatever you need.”
There he goes again, being the soft padding that’ll catch me when I fall. He’s so easy to rely on. He’s so steady and responsible and good.
If all of this were over, if we didn’t see each other anymore, I would be crushed.
The idea of leaving the team is already devastating enough.
No more talking strategy. No more eagerly showing him prospects.
No more watching him demonstrate snap shots or hearing the pleasure in his throat when he takes the sip of that morning coffee I bring him.
“I don’t want to own the team,” I say with finality. “That’s your thing. But if I decide to stay on,” I chew my bottom lip, vulnerability fluttering in my chest, “do you think there would be . . .” I trail off, unable to say the words.
I hate this. My instincts tell me to stop setting myself up for failure and rejection.
“Would there be a place for you?” Tate finishes. “Yes, Jordan. There will always be a place for you at the Storm, whether you want to work in management or pour drinks during games. You will always be welcome.”
My heart does a flip. I don’t know what I’m going to do after playoffs, but to know I have options is comforting.
“Okay?” he asks, and I nod.
“Okay.”
“Good.” A comfortable silence lingers between us. “Can we talk about the kiss?”
“Can’t we pretend it didn’t happen like normal people?”
He laughs.
“Why do you have to be so intense?” I ask with my eyes still closed, but I’m smiling, and I feel like he is, too. I can feel it in the air.
“Can you open your eyes, please?”
I take a deep breath and do as he asks, meeting his gaze while my stomach somersaults at the affectionate, amused expression on his handsome face.
“It was a good kiss,” he says, and god, how is it that the low lighting and glow from the fire makes him look even more attractive? “Wasn’t it?”
I nod, small and hesitant.
“A very good kiss.”
The best I’ve ever had.
His gaze shifts to my mouth. “I thought about it after. I think about it a lot.”
Doing what? In the shower? In his bed?
“Me, too,” I admit, pulse picking up.
His expression turns torn and he exhales, hard and heavy, running a big hand through his hair. “This is hard for me. Being selfish. But I can’t stop.” He studies me, jaw flexing as his eyes move over me in his sweatshirt. Over my legs and my hair and my mouth. “Come here, Jordan.”