Chapter 90 Tate
TATE
“Good evening, everyone.”
The dressing room quiets down as the focus turns to me.
The guys are dressed and ready for the game, already warmed up, and vibrating with energy, shifting from skate to skate.
After a week off between the third and fourth round of playoffs, they’re eager to play, eyes bright and energy high.
The noise from the fans rumbles through the building.
“First, let’s welcome Miller back.”
A loud round of applause and cheers fills the room and Miller grins, roguish and playful.
Owens loops a big arm around his neck to put him in a headlock and Miller laughs, jabbing him with his elbow.
His knee is healed, and he’s practically climbing the walls with energy.
We’re playing Connor McKinnon’s team, but Miller has assured us that his head is in the game.
“I just want to win,” he told us.
At the edge of the room, Jordan leans against the wall, listening.
I think about the photo posted on social media this afternoon of her in her suit, walking down the arena concourse to the dressing room, looking so at ease in her new role.
Hair up the way I love it, the glint of the necklace I bought her peeking through the open collar of her shirt.
I want to be Jordan Hathaway when I grow up, one commenter said.
The product of hockey royalty and a supermodel, another said. We aren’t worthy.
Need a Hathaway jersey! Limited edition!
Proud, with three clapping emojis.
OUR HOMETOWN QUEEN.
The comments with support for Jordan are endless. The fans love her. The fans have claimed her as their own.
“Jordan?” I look to her. “Any words?”
“You said it best.” She pauses. “Can you all hold on a second? I need to make a quick wardrobe change.”
She steps into the hall, and the guys glance at each other. Volkov cuts me a curious glance but I shrug.
A moment later, Jordan returns to the doorway and what she’s wearing makes me soar.
“That’s better,” she says, and everyone hoots and hollers at her jersey.
“Who’s on the back?” Walker yells. “It better be me.”
She turns and I press a fist to my mouth, overcome, because I can already see the number on the arm.
WARD, her jersey says. Number eighty-seven.
“In Ward We Trust,” she says simply, and everyone cheers.
Once the room quiets down, everyone looks back to me.
“Thank you, Jordan. We couldn’t have gotten here without you.” I look to the guys. “Do you love this game?”
They cheer.
“Do you want to win?”
Another round of cheers, louder.
“Are you ready to fight for it?”
More cheers, whistling, sticks tapping the floor.
“Alright. Let’s have some fun and show them a good time.”
The guys disperse through the door, and the announcer starts calling their names, one by one, while the music in the arena plays and the fans roar.
Jordan lingers, eyes on the doorway to the ice, before she turns to head up to the owner’s box.
“Jordan.”
She stops and turns, eyes meeting mine.
“Join us on the bench tonight.”
She presses her lips together, taking a deep breath as hesitation fills her eyes. A dozen reasons why she belongs out there rise in my mind, but I stay quiet, because this is her battle.
Maybe she’ll say no, and that’s okay, but I’d really like her to say yes, because she’s the reason the Storm made it to the fourth round.
“Okay,” she whispers.
“Okay?” My eyebrows lift, and I’m smiling again, relieved and proud. “You will?”
She nods. “I will.”
I let the coordinator know to introduce her, and a moment later, I stand on the bench, waiting.
“And for the first time on the Vancouver Storm bench,” the announcer calls, and the arena goes quiet, “Jordan Hathaway!”
Jordan appears, and noise explodes in the arena from the fans. The Storm players tap their sticks on the ice to show their support. On the jumbotron hanging from the roof, her face appears.
She gives me a small smile, glancing around. Behind us, fans take pictures of her. “I didn’t expect this.”
“You’re not just mine, Jordan.” I tilt my chin to the arena. “You’re theirs.”