Chapter 2 – Jordan
TWO
JORDAN
I let myself into Coach’s office since the door is open. She’s kept an open door policy, so I don’t feel bad lurking around the twelve-by-twelve room.
Instead of taking a seat, I walk over to the silver frames making up a gallery wall. Maybe they’ll keep them hung up, turn the space into a museum or memorial. The frames are filled with various player stills and team pictures, some with clippings from newspapers or printouts of online articles.
My favorite is the most recent addition.
It’s from the Frozen Four. Everyone is crowded around Coach.
Some lying on the ice while others sorority squat or have another teammate on their back, hands thrust into the air.
She’s in the center with an ear-to-ear smile, midnight blue eyes beaming as if we are the stars in the night sky, and the trophy in her hands.
Navy, green, and silver confetti litter the ice around us—small enough pieces that I had them caught in my sweaty braids all night.
I lean in, never having paid much attention to the background; I spot photobombers.
Behind us, through the plexiglass, is my brother and his friends.
Decked in Lakeland jerseys and sporting the mustaches they grew out for their tournament run.
They’re frozen mid cheer, faces painted with my number and mirroring our excitement—there were days, weeks, following our win that I believed they were more proud of our victory than theirs.
But what stands out, what hooks my eyes, are the frosted tips.
Jaxon, my brother’s best friend and probably most annoying roommate, is holding an enlarged cutout of my head. A gunslinger mustache taped below my nose, and he’s pretending to kiss me.
That’s the closest we’ll ever get to kissing. I snort a laugh, my signature eye roll reserved for Jaxon Greene accompanying it.
Pulling myself away from the photos, I take a seat in a chair on one side of Coach’s desk.
Twenty minutes later, Coach still isn’t here, and I don’t know what to do with my hands.
I’ve already inhaled the gummy bears I stole from Xan and the emergency protein bar in my fanny pack, which I’m almost positive has expired. I could fish my phone out, answer the insistent texts and calls—it hasn’t stopped vibrating in over five minutes.
They fan out over my knees, dance across my thighs, and adjust the hem of my biker shorts before I stuff them under my legs patiently waiting for Coach.
Thankfully, Coach comes flying into her office. Heels clicking on the concrete floor behind me. “Sorry about that. You know how Coach Anderson is, the guy can talk.”
“At least you won’t have to deal with him much more.” The insensitive joke soars off my tongue before I can stop it. My jaw tightens and it’s probably for the best I can’t see her reaction.
But Coach laughs. It’s faint, but it’s a laugh all the same.
“Summer was good?” she asks, getting situated behind her desk.
I nod. “Same, except I never thought this heat wave would end. It was impossible to get my girls out of the pool.” Coach is a single mom of two.
Sweet girls; they’ve hung around practice and even given a few pre-game pep talks.
The youngest, obsessed with Ted Lasso, made us our very own believe sign before our playoff run. “Not that I wanted to get out either.”
I accept her offer for something to drink, downing three-fourths of a miniature water in two gulps. She caps hers.
“Do you know who Coach Tyler is?”
“The figure skating coach?” One brow lifts.
“A spot recently opened up on his team. They weren’t going to backfill it this close to the semester starting, but when word got out about what is happening with our team, he reached out.
” She pauses. “Offering you the spot. He asked me to speak to you, gauge your interest before he reaches out personally.”
I finish the water, throat suddenly dry. “Why me?”
“You used to figure skate? No?”
“Yeah, but—” I swallow harshly. “I stopped a year into juniors.” At thirteen, I was doing both hockey and figure skating, and it was exhausting.
“Did you?” she challenges, already knowing the answer. Coach caught me showing off once, wanting to impress the team after someone bet that I couldn’t do a double axle. Landed it perfectly, in hockey skates, thank you.
Even though I haven’t competed in years, I’ve been known to attend a clinic or two.
I like what figure skating does for my playing.
Plus, once the pond in the backyard of my childhood home is frozen over and safe enough to skate on, I can’t help myself.
Gliding across the surface, completing an axle or two—except instead of a cute boy driving a Zamboni on the ice, it’s my dad.
“Isn’t there someone else?” There’s always someone else.
“Maybe, but he’d like you on the team.” Coach leans forward, resting her elbows on her desk. “This is good, Jordan. You’ll be able to maintain your scholarship, unless—”
“I’m not a figure skater.” The words I thought I was saying in my head bounce around the room, cutting her off. “I’m a hockey player.”
“Unless you wanted to transfer,” Coach finishes her sentence, capping it with a sigh. That hadn’t even crossed my mind, not like I’ve had any time to weigh my options. “Does playing hockey not make you a skater?”
A long pause stretches between us.
“How about this? The Pond reopens in two days. Why don’t you stop by, skate around. We both know that’s the best way to think. Practice an old routine or a—sorry, I’m not proficient in figure skating lingo.” I toss a few key moves out. “Yes, those. See how you feel and let me know. Okay?”
“Okay,” I relent, not wanting to disappoint her.
I leave Coach’s office ten minutes later, unexpectedly finding Xanie loitering in the lobby of the arena on a bench. She’s slouched against the wall, e-reader in hand.
“Hi.” I tap her shoulder. “Xan?” Waving a hand in front of the device when she doesn’t answer.
“Hi, sorry.” Her dazed gaze jumps back to reality. “Got to a good part. How’d it go?”
She scoots over, offering the spot next to her.
“I was offered a spot on the figure skating team,” I announce after leaning back against the chilled wall. Even in the waning weeks of summer, the arena is always cool air and the sharp smell of rubber and ice.
“Oh. Um.” She licks her lips after what feels like an eternity. “Tha-that’s awesome. Did you say yes? You should,” she rambles on. “You’ll get to keep your scholarship.”
I place a hand on her bouncing knee.
Xanie is worried about her scholarship. I read it all over her reserved body language earlier, saw how she tucked her phone under the table, searching: what happens to my scholarship if my team is cut? How much is Lakeland University tuition? How to transfer colleges? Scholarships for juniors?
Money isn’t a problem for my family, but it is for Xanie’s family.
Her dad lost his job during Xan’s senior year of high school and has struggled to maintain something steady since.
We did most of our recruiting visits together to help alleviate travel costs and to help her parents not take time off.
If it wasn’t for an athletic scholarship, she doesn’t know what she would’ve done for school.
She’s smart, but doesn’t test well. Grades aren’t on par for an academic scholarship, and financial aid wasn’t sufficient.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Don’t not take it because of me.” Amber eyes are flecked with worry.
“Between us, I don’t think I’m going to—”
“You have to.” She starts to spiral. “You can’t not take—don’t not take it because of me.”
“Hey.” I squeeze her knee. “I promise, it’s not about you. Okay?”
Xanie takes a slow inhale, turning to face me and it stings. The uncertainty and hurt in her eyes. I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t help but blame myself for not doing enough to reassure her. “I think I’m going to go to Nico’s.”
Outside, I offer to drive her, but she insists on walking to her boyfriend’s off-campus apartment.
I park in my assigned spot behind Donahue Hall, the ivy-covered dorm we’re living in for the second year in a row.
After a lucky go at the housing lottery, successfully landing a two-bedroom suite with a private bathroom, we decided not to press our luck again for anything off campus.
As if this morning couldn’t get any worse, I round the front of the building and find Luka leaning against the brick.
“Hi, ice princess.” My teeth grind together at the sound of Luka’s voice, the passive-aggressive sarcasm to the nickname.
“What are you doing here, Luka?” I question, not bothering to spin in his direction. He’s the last person I want to see right now. He follows me, sneakers scraping against the pavement.
“Missed you this morning. I thought we were going to have breakfast.”
“Breakfast,” I spit out with a singular, sardonic laugh, climbing the stairs before turning to face him. Which is a mistake. Luka’s eyes are like honey pots, a trap that ensnares you if you look too long. I almost, emphasis on almost, feel guilty for leaving without a goodbye.
Luka shrugs. “I tried calling, but you didn’t answer.”
So he decided to drive to Lakeland? I spin on my heels, ascend the final two stone steps. “I was in a meeting,” I tell him, scanning my ID.
“I know.”
I let the door close. “You know?”
“One of the guy’s cousin Amelia plays for Lakeland.
” Luka lets out a closemouthed snicker. I catch the shake of his head as if it doesn’t surprise him I didn’t remember the relationship.
“She’s thinking about transferring to Wisconsin.
The girl’s team could use a left winger if you want to join her.
I could easily convince the coach to put you on first line.
Or”—a corner of his mouth begins to curl—“I can get you a jersey with my name on it for your free time.”
What an ass. I refrain from rolling my eyes, giving him any type of reaction.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Because you already purchased one. I’m touched, ice princess.” He takes a step, reaching for the end of one of my braids. Luka twirls it around his pointer finger before I snatch the hair back. “Are you okay?”
His tone softens, and this our problem. Yes, Luka is an ass ninety percent of the time, but the ten percent he’s not? He’s great, hypnotizing even.
“No,” I respond truthfully, tension rolling off my shoulders. I tip my head back, sighing. “I can’t believe they cut our team but not a single men’s team.”
Never mind. Make that one hundred-percent of the time.
“I mean…that makes sense.”
“Makes sense?”
“Think about it. If the athletic program is struggling, why would they cut the most profitable sports?”
“And all men’s sports are more profitable?”
“Generally speaking, yeah. Men’s sports are better than women’s. Better athletes plus higher attendance equals more money.”
I stare, blink with repulsion.
“Come on, ice princess. Think—”
“Stop calling me that,” I grit. I’ve always hated the nickname. Hated how it rolled off his tongue. Hated the implications that came with it.
Luka raises his hands in innocence. “Think about this too. More men go on to become professional athletes than women. That says a lot about the University, helps with recruiting, and will help with finding new donors.”
“That’s because we didn’t have a place to play till recently.” I roll my eyes. “We won the Frozen Four last season.”
“For the first time in what? When was the program started?”
“Twenty years,” I answer, unfortunately giving in to his point.
“And how many have the men’s team won in the same time?”
“Four,” I rip the number off quickly. “But they went almost a decade—”
“Doesn’t really matter.”
My raised voice draws the attention of a couple holding hands that pass by. “What are you saying here, Luka?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m trying to be reasonable.”
“You aren’t.”
“Come on, ice princess.” He reaches for my hand. “I am.”
“I said stop calling me that.” I huff, glowering at him. “You want to know what it sounds like you are saying?” I don’t give him the chance to respond. “That men are better athletes than women.”
“We are.” I scoff. “Jordan, you can’t seriously think that women are better…or even close to the same level of athleticism. If they were, they’d let you join the men’s team.”
“That’s—” I don’t even know what to say. I shake my head.
“Cut the attitude. It’s not attractive.”
What’s new? Luka always thinks I have an attitude. Always a resting bitch face. Always a cold demeanor. Always overdramatic. Always something, and he loves to point it out.
“You’re being overdramatic about this.” Luka snorts. He steps aside to let a student pass us. “Sure, it sucks, but what were they supposed to do? Did you really expect them to let you play on the men’s team?”
When I look at him, the raise of my brow saying yes, he brings a hand to his chest and bursts out in laughter. It would be an NCAA first.
“They could. It would only be fair to give us a shot.”
“Sorry to break it to you, but life isn’t fair.” He huffs a laugh. “Even if they did, you’d never make it. We are bigger, faster, stronger, and more physical. You’d embarrass yourself.”
“Embarrass myself?” I brush my fingers along the gold charms of my necklace. “Or embarrass you when you’d lose to a girl?”
Luka’s laugh is like nails on a chalkboard. “Come on, ice—Jordan, we both know that would never happen. I’m not saying you aren’t a good player, but—”
“I’m not good enough.” He reaches for me. I slap his hand away, taking a step backward. “Remember when you told me I was better than half the guys on your team? I’d come to visit, and we played a pick-up game, and I scored on Henderson.”
“Jordan.” I’m starting to wonder how hard the process is to change your name. “I only said that because I wanted in your pants. He took it easy on you.”
That’s not how the afternoon went, and we both know it. But I can’t say I’m shocked that he’s remembering it his way.
I clasp my hands, eager to end this ridiculous conversation. Especially because over my shoulder, I spot my brother and Jaxon rollerblading toward us. “Well, thanks for stopping by and your riveting insights. If there’s one thing I took from them, it’s this: Fuck you, Luka.”
Luka opens his mouth to say something else but snaps it shut. His laugh is like nails on the chalk board, but thankfully he leaves, gone before Cooper and Jaxon reach me.
Bright, mossy green eyes meet mine and a wave of ease crashes over me. “You good, Little Carmichael?”
“Perfect, Greene.” My eyes narrow in warning.