Chapter 28 Jordan
jordan
Gliding backward on the ice, my opponent comes straight for me, all my senses on high alert.
Watching for the slightest shift in movement.
Listening for his teammates calling out to him.
Keeping my eyes directly on his chest to make sure I have him, while using my peripheral vision to focus on his eye movements to see if anyone else is in the way.
I know Vladi is behind me, but my goal is for this puck to not get anywhere near his crease.
My senses may be locked on this game, but it’s nothing compared to when Kennedy kissed me.
It’s been weeks since our date. Weeks since I held her hand.
Weeks since she grabbed my face in the rain and pressed her lips to mine.
That lightning strike that seemingly pulled us apart?
That was nothing more than an electric shock jump-starting my heart to beat for her even more.
I’ve struggled to fall asleep every night, thinking about our kiss and wondering if she’s awake doing the same.
Does she feel it too? Does her heart pound as fast as mine every time my phone buzzes, hoping it’s her?
Does her breathing get so fucking fast when she sees me walking down the aisle of the plane, the same way mine does when I catch a glimpse of her at the other end?
At least that’s one bright spot—she does say hi to me now.
We’ve made small talk and texted here and there, making sure we had a plan and a story if anyone asked what we were doing or where we’d been.
And we figured people would want us both to remain professionals on the plane, so no need to flaunt things there.
But fuck me. If she were really mine? I would be flaunting her everywhere.
Kennedy is everything. And that kiss did nothing but provide even more proof.
She’s the one. But she still seems…annoyed that we’re dating.
That this is an inconvenience. How do I get her past this?
How do I get her to see me in a different light?
And, of course, this is all happening during the playoffs.
Which I’m happy to be in the midst of—hell, we even agreed we’d keep dating through these games—but there’s not a lot of time for socializing or figuring out how to woo the girl of my dreams into falling in love with me.
How the fuck do I even do that? Shit. I’m so out of my element here.
Niko Koskinen from Green Bay passes to his teammate and whirls by me toward the net.
Fuck. It’s game five in the first round of the playoffs.
We’re up three games to one on the Bobcats.
Win this, and we move on. What’s even more at stake, though?
Win this, and my fake girlfriend isn’t going anywhere.
My legs burn as I tear after him, my pulse thrumming in my ears louder than the fans.
We’re up by one goal late in the third. It’s not do-or-die tonight, but we are itching to clinch.
Having a few extra days of rest during these brutal rounds is a nice perk.
You don’t want too much rest, but almost all of us are playing with some sort of injury, bad bruise, sprain, or are in a lot of pain, especially this late in the season, so a little rest is welcome.
I myself am nursing a bruised ankle after I took a slapshot to the skate.
It’s painful, but it’s the playoffs. We push through.
Right now, the only pain I’m focused on is the pain-in-the-ass Koskinen, from Green Bay, who is trying his best to get me off my game. I’m crowding the douchebag enough that he can’t get a shot off, so he skates behind the net, and I get in a good hit right into the boards.
Then I hear it. The fucking whistle. Fuck.
“In the box sixty-eight,” the ref says as he skates up to me.
“What? That was a clean hit. What are you even calling here?”
“Boarding,” he says, skating me over to the box.
“He leaned into the boards!” My arms fly up in disbelief at this stupid-ass call. “This is horseshit, and you know it! That was a fucking clean hit.”
“Keep it up, Boucher, and I’ll toss you.”
Fucking fuck. The last thing we need right now is to be on the PK.
I slam myself down in the penalty box and beat my stick against the glass.
“Fucking piece of shit ref!” I continue to grumble well after the official has skated away to announce the penalty over his damn little pussy of a microphone.
That was not boarding, and that damn ref knows it.
I see Coach Cal trying to argue the call as the entire arena erupts in a chant of ‘ref you suck.’
But it’s no use. This isn’t a call they can review, so a face-off right in front of Vladi’s net is set to go down.
Two minutes and thirty seconds. If they can just hold them off for the power play, we can return to full strength.
I can barely keep myself seated on this damn bench, desperate to be back on the ice, but I need to rest my legs so I can go full throttle the last thirty seconds once I’m out of here.
Luckily, my teammates have cleared the puck out of our zone a couple times, but Green Bay is bringing the puck down the ice again.
Goddammit! I hate not being out there.
Fifteen seconds left in my penalty. Green Bay has gotten off a couple more shots, but, as expected, Vladi is playing out of his mind tonight.
He wants nothing more than to bring a cup to the city that’s done so much for him.
I want to do everything possible to help him with that.
I watch the official in the box step over to the door, watching the seconds count down, jumping out of the box when the clock hits zero, and skating toward Vladi as fast as my legs can take me.
Number eighty-seven for Green Bay passes to his teammate just as I enter the zone.
I intercept it, a smirk on my face, and pivot, heading toward Green Bay’s goal.
I see Larsy racing toward their net as well, and we fly up the ice.
It’s two on one. We have the puck. I could take the shot, but Larsy’s got the better angle, so I zoom toward the net and just as I approach the goalie, getting him to shift his weight to my side, I pass the puck back to Larsy, who pops it into the back of the net just as the horn sounds.
Our home crowd screams, and our teammates clear the bench and form a giant dogpile on the ice.
We fucking did it! We’re moving on. God, this feels good. I love this team so much. It’s such a special group of guys. Even though they give me a lot of shit and call me dumbass rich boy names, I still love every single one of them.
And now it’s time to do the classiest thing in all of sports—shake the other team’s hands.
It only happens at the end of a series, and it sucks to be on the other side of this receiving line, but the handshake in hockey shows how much respect we all have for one another.
But waiting in the line this time, instead of thoughts of the next round, the next game, and what could be for our team, my thoughts aren’t on hockey. They’re on her.
I instantly spotted her in the crowd when I skated out during warm-ups, unable to stop the stupid grin from spreading across my cheeks.
She’s here with all the WAGs, because thanks to our arrangement—she is one.
She’s not been to the away games. She’s doing her pilot stuff.
And that’s her job, so I get it, but tonight is a home game—and she’s here.
Is she thinking about me now? I smile like an idiot as I go through the motions and shake hands.
They have no idea my grin is not sportsmanship, but about the woman in the stands, I’m anxious to see.
After handshakes and celebrations, I grab a quick shower and change back into my suit.
As I head out of the locker room, I see most of the WAGs waiting in the hallway for us.
Maggie, Olivia, Kara, and—oh my God. My jaw drops, my stomach twisting into knots.
Breathe, Jordan…Breathe. Standing next to Kara, wearing a blue embroidered jacket with the number sixty-eight on the sleeve, is Kennedy.
She’s wearing my number. Am I allowed to cry?
Cause I kinda want to cry. Girls cry in movies all the time; why can’t I, dammit?
! But I suck in a sharp breath and flash her a smile as I get close.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Great start, Jordan. Maybe say more than one word next time. “So…what’s this?” I say, pointing to her jacket. “You’re wearing my number?”
“I’m technically your girlfriend, so…yeah.” She bites her lip as she leans against the concrete wall. “Also, Maggie said I had to.”
I look over to Maggie, who gives me a wink and mouths ‘you’re welcome.’ Does she know I have a thing for Kennedy? How much does she know? Do her and Vladi sit and gossip about us at night? I can’t really picture that. I feel like she asks him how his day was, and he just grunts.
“I’m flattered. It’s kind of a big deal to have someone wear your number.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Are you, um,” —I swallow back the nerves that have my throat closing up— “are you coming out with everyone after the game? We’re all going to Walt’s to celebrate.”
She forces a smile that sends my heart plummeting to the floor. “I don’t know; I’m kind of tired. I think I’m just going to—”
“Oh no, you don’t!” Kara shouts as she and Olivia quickly move to her side, looping their arms around hers.
“Kennedy Kramer, you are coming out with us. My parents are taking the kids home, and we’re going to spend this one night celebrating.
We have no idea when they’ll be at home for a series clinch again, so we are going to have a good time! ”
“Yes, Kennedy, you have to come! There is no excuse. You don’t work tomorrow. The team has an off day. You don’t have Guard stuff,” Olivia says, counting out the reasons on her fingers. “You’re coming.”
“Well,” Maggie chimes in, “sounds like Kara and Liv have my speech covered. So, it’s settled. You’re coming.”
I dig my fingernail into my palm, trying to hold back the smile as these feisty women gang up on her.
And every word they say gives me a little more hope she’ll say yes.
She looks at her friends, who are all giving her a look like they know she’s about to make up another excuse.
Her brows narrow as a fake smile creeps across her face.
“I guess I can come for a couple drinks.”
“Great!” Maggie grins. “You’re riding with Bougie. We’ll see you guys there!”
“What?!” Kennedy and I both shout, looking at Maggie wide eyed.
“Yes! You’re dating. You have to ride together. It’s the law. WAG law. See you there!”
My heart jumps from the floor back into my chest, beating fast and hard. Is she riding with me? In my car? We haven’t been together in a car since…since…the most powerful, explosive, mind-blowing, life-altering kiss in the history of the world.
What the fuck do I do?