Chapter 84
JORDAN
“So,” my father says at lunch a week later. “Good game last night.”
We’re on a rooftop patio that the Storm’s equipment managers recommended.
It’s a warm day in late May and the sky is blue and endless, with the breeze in my hair and the sounds of the city rising from the street below.
People glance over and smile at us, and I nod back with my own smile.
Go Storm, someone called across the restaurant when we walked in, and I laughed and waved back.
“We lost.” Four to three, so it wasn’t a shutout, thankfully. And we won the two games before that in the third round, so the guys are still motivated and eager. They still have the right mentality, that winning is completely achievable.
Two more games to win, and we’re on to the final round of the Stanley Cup. We are so, so close.
“We lost,” he agrees, looking out at the skyline. “But it was still a good game. And Owens didn’t let Driedger get in his head.”
His phone beeps and he frowns, pulling it out to silence it.
“Sorry. I thought I put it on Do Not Disturb.” He taps something on the screen before slipping it away again, and when he looks back at me, he blinks. “What?”
I’m in shock. “Since when do you use the Do Not Disturb function?”
Maybe it comes out in my typical flat tone, but I don’t mean it to hurt him. Work is everything to my dad. His team, all his business deals, keeping up with his contacts in the hockey and business communities.
His mouth flattens. “From that reaction, I probably should have been using it for a while.” He clears his throat. “That was a fun game you organized last week.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask lightly. “I’m shocked you could walk the next day.”
He lets out a bark of laughter. “I may be old, but I still have it.”
I turn away, hiding a smile as I look out at the skyline.
“And that was a very nice thing you did for Tate,” he adds.
I caution a glance at him. Does he know how I feel about the Storm’s head coach? He wears a small, knowing smile.
“That’s the kind of thing you do for someone you love,” he says, like it’s so simple. “And that’s a very pretty necklace. Matching earrings, too?” He whistles before giving me a sly look. “I overheard Tate asking the guys if they have a favorite jeweler.”
Busted. Instead of wanting to disappear into the floor, though, I feel like smiling. I think about what happened after the game with all the ex-NHL guys, when Tate pulled me into his private shower off his office with a hand over my mouth to keep me quiet.
“Do you think it’s a mistake?” I ask, watching his neutral expression. He’s so good at masking his feelings. Maybe that’s where I learned it.
“That’s not for me to answer.” A pause. “Are you still giving him the team?”
The words catch in my throat. “I don’t know. It would probably be the best decision for the organization. He’s a natural leader. Everyone loves him. He has the expertise and charisma to lead.”
“And you, Jordan? What about you?”
I want to stay. I don’t care about legal ownership of the team, but now that I’ve had a taste of what it’s like to be a part of something, I don’t want to leave.
I love working with Tate and the team and everyone here at the Storm.
I love using my power to help the staff get what they need to do their jobs better. I love helping them win.
“I don’t know,” I say, because I’m still afraid to dream big, even after the past few months. Even after Tate has told me I belong here and I’m meant to be a part of this.
At UBC, I thought I was part of that team’s world, too. I can tell myself this situation is different, that Tate and the Storm are different, but there’s no guarantee.
Our food arrives, and my father and I discuss our strategy for the next two games.
“Connor McKinnon is back in the league,” I tell him.
Hazel’s asshole ex and probably the only person on the planet Rory Miller hates.
Tate sent him back to the farm team a few seasons ago and then traded him elsewhere.
“If his team makes it to the finals and Rory’s knee is in good enough shape to play, that could be a problem. ”
My dad nods. “Good to think about. We’ll deal with it when we get there.”
We eat in comfortable silence, and after our plates are cleared and we’re waiting for the check, my father sits back in his chair and looks out at the mountains rising out of the water nearby.
“I did visit her, you know. When she was sick.”
My mouth goes dry. There’s no question who he’s talking about.
“You had exams that day,” he adds.
She made me promise to go to my exams. She didn’t want me failing a semester of school for her, even if I didn’t care.
“She slept most of the time, but we did talk a bit. I left before you got there.”
“Why?” And why is he telling me this?
“Couldn’t bear to look you in the eyes, after what I had done. After all that I had missed. It’s why I missed her funeral.” He shakes his head to himself. “I was a coward, Jordan, and I was distracting myself. You were better off without me.”
I blink, processing this. It’s what I wanted for years, but hearing him take accountability isn’t as satisfying as I would have thought. An ugly discomfort takes up space around my lungs at hearing him talk about himself like this.
“If I were around more,” he says, looking weary and old once again, “maybe I would have known about the symptoms. I would have encouraged her to get checked earlier. I would have gotten her a second, third, and fourth opinion.” His eyes close and a pulse of empathy goes off inside me. “Maybe she’d still be here today.”
Three months ago, I would have agreed. I would have jumped at the chance to cause him pain like he caused me.
He’s had enough, though, from what I can see. He’s carried this for years.
“It wasn’t treatable,” I say quietly. “They only found a new method of treatment a few years ago.” The team researching treatments received a massive windfall of funding shortly after my mom passed.
Something about his unsurprised expression makes me sit up straighter. It clicks. “You donated that money to the lab so they could research treatment methods.”
He studies the skyline again. “It was the least I could do.” He blows a heavy breath out, looking down, weighing his words. “I’ve been seeing a therapist.”
Now I really am dreaming. My dad, seeing a therapist. I’m not sure I heard right.
“I asked her how to get my daughter back, but she didn’t want to talk about you.
She wanted to talk about me.” He folds his arms. “When things get tough, I’ve realized, I submerge myself into things that keep me busy instead of the things I don’t want to think about.
It’s what I’ve always done. For a long time, I felt that my only accomplishment was what I could achieve on the ice and in the business world, when really, Jordan,” he hesitates.
His hands are shaking, “you are my greatest achievement. The woman you’ve grown into, without any help from me. ”
I’m speechless. Emotion squeezes my throat. For every ounce of anger I’ve felt toward him, he feels it toward himself tenfold.
And to hear that he’s proud of me? It’s everything.
“My father, he—things were different when I was growing up. The men brought home the bacon, and if you couldn’t do that, you were letting your family down. Somewhere along the way, I let it get out of control.”
There’s so much sincerity in his gaze.
“I love you more than anything, though, Jordan. You are my life’s purpose. You will always be my daughter, and I will never stop loving you. I’m sorry that wasn’t clear. I’m so sorry.”
The back of my scalp prickles as I stare at him, a growing sense of something sweet and sharp moving up my throat. He didn’t choose work over me. He didn’t choose Tate over me.
He was choosing me, just in his messed-up, gender-normative way.
I’m not unloved. I never was.
He’s human. Like the rest of us. He has regrets and misses her, like I do. It took bravery to bare himself like this and admit fault.
“You look so much like your mother,” he says quietly. “You have my hair color, but your eyes are hers.”
I don’t say anything.
“And you’re stubborn like her,” he adds quietly. “Smart and motivated. Clever, watchful. You notice the small things. She always did, too.” He sighs. “I miss your mother, and I hate myself for not being there. And I miss you, too.”
“Okay,” I croak, finally saying something.
“Okay?”
We aren’t finished with this conversation, but I need time to process it.
“We’re not fixed,” I tell him, pressing my lips together. “But we will be. We’re going to work on it.”
Hope fills his eyes and he nods. “We’re going to work on it. Thank you.”
I want to ask him about the team. I want to ask him not to sell after the season’s over, but the part of me that still wants to make him proud keeps me silent. The Storm can win the Cup. I know they can.
And I’m going to show him.
“Do you still have her summer house?” I ask as we walk back to the arena.
His expression softens. “Oh, yes. Kept it up just the way she had it.”
I should feel more relieved, but I think deep down, I knew he wouldn’t part with it. “With all her records?”
“Mhm.” He nods, smiling more now. “And the twinkle lights across the ceiling.”
“You thought those were so silly.”
“Well, now I see them and I think of her.”
Silence stretches between us as we wait for the light to change.
“You can use it anytime,” he says. “It’s going to you eventually, anyway.”
An idea forms in my head. There’s a week between the end of the third round and beginning of the fourth, if we make it. And if we don’t, well, Tate could use a getaway regardless.
I picture the stars in the sky, so clear and bright without the light pollution from the city.
“I’d like to take you up on that offer.”