Chapter 93
JORDAN
That afternoon, I stand outside the press room, hands shaking as I reread the statement I’ve prepared.
The head of PR pops her head out the door. “They’re ready.”
My chin dips in a nod. I might puke. I’m still doing this, though. For Tate. For Bea. For my team. For women everywhere who want to work in sports.
I step into the press room. Cameras flash and the reporters start asking questions all at once. I have one foot on the bottom step up to the platform when a hand lands on my shoulder.
Rory’s at my side. Behind him, the team filters into the room. I don’t understand. The assembled press also appear confused.
“Excuse me, Jordan,” Rory says with a smile before he walks up the steps to the platform and takes a seat at the table in front of the microphone.
The guys follow him, walking past me with friendly nods, and take their places standing behind him. They don’t seem upset. More people enter the room. The entire team is here? And the farm team. The platform is full of people. People stand on the steps, congregate in the area off the side.
“Actually,” Rory says to the reporters, “can you all move back to make room? Thanks.”
The reporters murmur and shuffle back as more people from the Storm organization enter the room.
Accountants, operations team, trainers. Security.
The medical staff, including Georgia, who gives me a quick squeeze on the arm as she passes.
The Zamboni drivers. A couple bartenders I worked with during that game.
“Good afternoon.” Rory gives everyone a friendly nod. “I’m here today to address rumors of an alleged romantic relationship between Jordan Hathaway and Coach Tate Ward.”
Oh god. I start shaking my head, trying to get his attention. What the fuck is Rory doing?
Movement at the side of the stage has Rory pausing as someone steps onto the end.
My father. He never attends press conferences, but no one except for the reporters looks surprised to see him.
“Hey, Ross,” Rory says, like he expected him, before he turns back to his papers and speaks into the mic. “On behalf of the entire Storm organization, we encourage anyone who has an issue with Jordan’s position on the Storm or her personal life to fuck right off.”
My mouth drops. Someone in the press pool gasps. A few people behind Rory smile, including Luca and Hayden.
“Jordan is hardworking, determined, and has an exceptional aptitude for both hockey and the psychology of team dynamics,” Rory continues.
“She is directly responsible for acquiring Carey Colworth and Rasmus Hallstrom, for Warren Kilgour’s re-entry into the league, as well as numerous trades to create cap space.
When my injury took me out, Jordan used analytics and creativity to find new lineup combinations.
She organized team bonding events to help us recover from the mental beating of ten losses in a row, and brought us from barely making the playoffs with a wild card spot to where we are today: game seven of the last round of the Stanley Cup finals. ”
Rory looks up from his papers as the press room waits in silence.
“Beyond that, she has made every effort to learn this organization. Her philosophy is that every single member of the organization is important to our success—just like Ross Sheridan. Just like Coach Tate Ward. Jordan Hathaway is the reason we’re stepping onto the ice tonight.”
He looks over at me. They all are. Every member of the Storm organization. My heart beats up into my throat.
“Jordan, you’re a valuable member of the Storm family, and regardless of what the assholes online say, you belong here.”
My eyes sting. So this is what it’s like, to feel not just like I fit in but like I’m meant to be here. It’s not unfamiliar, either. It’s a sensation that’s been growing since January, since I started with the team.
These people are my family, and I’d do anything for them. Win or lose tonight, I don’t regret a second. I’d do it all again.
“The Vancouver Storm,” Rory continues, turning his attention back to the press, “will not tolerate discriminatory or sexist remarks against women in sports. We will continue to encourage, support, and hire women. Our message to the press, the fans, and the league is this: you are either with us or against us. Thank you.”
He ignores the rush of questions, and when he reaches me on the edge of the stage, he wraps me in a tight hug. Right in front of everyone.
“Thanks,” he says, pulling back to smile down at me. “For everything.”
“My pleasure, Rory. Honestly.” I blink back emotion from my eyes. “Every second of it.”
The press room goes quiet. They knew I was going to make a statement. Everyone waits, watching, while I move up the steps and take the seat Rory just vacated.
“Hi,” I say into the mic. The papers I’m holding are shaking, so I set them down. The words are a blur in front of me anyway, as my mind spins with the dizzying weight of everyone’s attention. All these reporters. All these cameras. The entire organization watching. The entire city.
“Hi.” I shake my head. “Sorry, I already said that.”
A few gentle laughs before silence resumes.
I can do this. This matters. This is worth it.
I open my mouth to bare my heart.
“Hold on a second, Jordan.”
Tate’s voice has me whipping my head to see him moving through the crowded room. My heart jumps and even though this is my fight, my test, an immediate sense of relief and calm settles through me.
He’s here—my safe space. I’m not alone.
Tate steps onstage and pulls out the chair beside me. “Pardon the interruption. Jordan, would you mind if I said a few words first?”
“Okay,” I manage, blinking.
He takes a seat. “Thank you. It’ll just take a second, and it’s important.
” He adjusts the mic and faces the press.
“Rory has already said all that needs to be said about Jordan’s role with the team.
The Storm is proud to be a feminist organization, and we will not tolerate disrespect of our staff.
” His tone and expression are unshakeable.
“I’m here to address the personal allegations regarding myself and Jordan. ”
A terrifying thought strikes me: His career is on the line. What if he denies it?
I’d die. I’d just die if that happened. And it would be on camera for everyone to see.
No—what? This is Tate. He would never humiliate me like that. He loves me. By preparing for the worst, I let old demons win.
“Jordan Hathaway is kind, thoughtful, intelligent, and funny.”
“Tate,” I interrupt, eyes going wide, my face going hot.
“Hold on, Jordan. I’m sorry to embarrass you, but it needs to be said.” He turns back to the room. “Her heart is bigger than anyone will ever know. I suspect that there will be calls for my resignation—”
Alarm snaps through me.
“—but that will not be happening,” he says, the command in his voice making everyone sit up straighter, listen harder. “We are two consenting adults. I recognize that as the head coach, I am above Jordan in the Storm’s org chart—”
“Tate.”
He looks over at the urgency in my voice. I take a deep breath and address the room.
“As of this afternoon, Tate Ward and I are fifty-fifty owners of the Vancouver Storm.”
Now this surprises the organization. Some people hoot, some people start clapping, and everyone is looking over at me with proud, pleased smiles.
“Nice,” Luca calls, giving me the thumbs-up.
I’d like to make you a deal, I told my father this afternoon. A new one.
“I was given a role on the team because my father is the owner,” I tell the press. “I grew up with and still hold privileges that many people will never have. I have never played hockey. I’m not a man. I will likely never have the impact on this team that my father has.”
My gaze cuts to Tate’s, his eyes full of pride and affection, and my heart flutters. He nods once at me, ever encouraging and supportive. Tate, Rory, the entire organization has stood up for me, but I want to stand up for myself, too.
“I will continue to give this team everything, because I believe in them. The Vancouver Storm is my team, and working with them is a privilege.” The conviction and belief in my voice rings out around the room, and a weight lifts off my chest. “I will not give up, and you will not get rid of me.”
The room is silent before it breaks out in a roar of applause, cheers, and whoops. Blood rushes to my face as I press my lips together, trying not to smile too hard.
“With regard to the personal allegations,” I look back to Tate, my heart racing in the best way, “I’m in love with Tate Ward.”
His smile grows, zero surprise in his expression, and it feels good to meet him halfway like this.
“Look at him,” I add, gesturing to Tate. “Who wouldn’t be?”
A few chuckles.
He leans forward to his own mic. “For the record, I’m also in love with Jordan Hathaway.”
“Glad we cleared that up.” I smile at him before looking to the rest of the organization. “Anyone else want to make a big announcement?”
Everyone laughs, and I smile.
“See you tonight after the game,” I tell the press and stand as they all start asking questions at once.
As everyone leaves the room, Tate finds me, looking at me with a pride in his eyes that fills my whole heart with purpose and belonging.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” he says, smiling down at me.
“So.”
He smiles more, like I’m adorable. Like he loves me. “So.”
“We own a hockey team together.”
“Mhm.” His eyes are so brilliantly bright, so full of affection and warmth and amusement. “You know I would have been happy for you to keep the team.”
“I know.” And I do. “But I like it better this way. Partners.”
He looks at me like I’m everything. “Just like I hoped.”
He searches my eyes, his broad chest rising and falling with a deep breath as he steps closer, hands framing my face, slipping into the back of my hair.
“What else do you hope for?” I ask quietly.
“I hope you stay with the team, keep learning and using your skills and knowledge to do what you love. I hope you move in with me and Bea so I can fall asleep next to you every night and wake up beside you every morning, so I can take care of you and make sure you eat. I hope we get married, if that’s what you want. ”
“That’s what I want,” I cut in, my heart lifting as I study the rich green of his eyes. “I want that so badly.”
“Good.” He smiles, soft and loving. “I hope you and Bea continue building your relationship, because you need each other. I hope you and Holly become close friends, because I suspect you both want that. I hope we dance together in your bar or the kitchen or whatever hotel room we’re in for an away game.
I hope you read articles about how handsome I am to try and embarrass me. That was truly evil, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly, and he laughs.
“I hope we have a long, happy life together.”
“I want that, too. All of that.”
“Good.”
He kisses me, kisses the smile on my mouth, and my heart is so full. Bursting with love and gratitude and joy and everything I ever wanted.
He pulls back, smiling down at me, so handsome it makes my heart ache. He makes a low noise in his throat, shaking his head like he can’t believe it.
“Ready?” he asks, and I nod, slipping my hand into his.
“Let’s go win the Stanley Cup.”