Chapter 94
TATE
That night, the Vancouver Storm players stand in the hallway that leads to the ice, buzzing with energy as the lights in the arena go down and the opening notes of the music start to play.
At my side, Jordan wears a jersey with my name on the back beneath her suit jacket, and pride expands through my chest. Bea’s out in the crowd, wearing her own Storm jersey, cheering us on.
I bring my mouth to Jordan’s ear. “I like the way you look in my jersey.”
She cuts me a dry glance, but her eyes are sparkling. “Now is not the time to flirt with me.”
“Who’s flirting?” I give her an innocent look. “I’m just saying you look good with my name on your back.”
Her eyes narrow.
I lower my voice so no one else can hear. “Am I thinking about bending you over my desk and fucking you while you wear it? Sure. But that’s beside the point.”
Her cheeks go pink. “Tate.”
“Jordan, please.” I nudge my chin to the doorway. “The game’s about to start. Be professional.”
She rolls her eyes, laughing.
Rory looks up and down the line of players. “Playing with you all this season has been an honor. Let’s show them a good time.”
“And now,” the announcer’s voice rings out in the arena, and the guys stand up straighter, “for the last time this season, please welcome the Vancouver Storm!”
“Ready?” I ask Jordan at my side.
She looks up at me, eyes sparkling, and nods.
“Win or lose, honey.” I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. Finally, we don’t have to hide. “It was all worth it.”
“Win or lose.” She studies me with a wistful smile.
She feels it too—that it’s not the result. It’s the process. It’s the journey.
She slants me a look, a determined glint in her eyes. “I really want to win, though.”
I laugh, that competitive spark flaring in my chest. “Me, too.”
“Please welcome,” the announcer calls. “Luca Walker!”
Walker does a lap around the ice, grinning at a group of people holding signs of his face.
“He loves the attention,” Jordan says beside me, shaking her head. She’s smiling, though.
“Carey Colworth!”
Colworth hits the ice, skating hard as the fans cheer. He’s only been with the team for a couple months but a few fans wear cowboy hats and Hawaiian shirts over their jerseys in homage to him.
“Rasmus Hallstrom!”
More cheers as the Swede skates with a serious, stoic expression.
“Warren Kilgour!”
Kilgour does a lap, and I glance to the seats where his dad and sister sit, proud of him.
“Goaltender Jamie Streicher!”
The partners are all in their usual spot, behind the net. Pippa’s on her feet, wearing Streicher’s jersey, cheering and waving as he makes his way to the net and the fans cheer for their goalie. She taps the necklace on her chest and he nods at her.
“Your captain, Rory Miller!”
Rory hits the ice, and the fans cheer extra loud.
Daddy Miller, one sign reads. He points to Hazel, sitting behind the net beside Pippa, wearing his jersey, and puts a hand on his heart.
Rory’s parents, Rick and Nicole, sit in the row behind the women, along with Hazel and Pippa’s parents, and the group couldn’t look prouder.
“Hayden Owens!”
Hayden does a lap with a beaming grin, skating behind the net past Darcy, who’s wearing his jersey. He blows her a kiss and she smiles.
My good luck charm, he mouths, pointing at her through the glass.
“On the bench tonight, longtime Storm player and assistant coach, Alexei Volkov!”
A roar of appreciation from the fans as Volkov steps through the doorway. He nods with a serious expression, but his eyes find Georgia behind the net, also wearing his jersey, and his mouth softens into a smile.
“As of this afternoon, she’s part-owner of the Vancouver Storm—” and the fans start cheering, knowing exactly who he’s talking about.
Their favorite. Clips of her sticking up for herself at the press conference this afternoon have gone viral and amassed more support than even I could have predicted. “Jordan Hathaway!”
The fans cheer just as loud for Jordan as they do for the players, on their feet, waving their flags and towels and making noise to show their appreciation for the woman who loves the Storm as much as they do.
She looks back through the doorway, smiling at me with emotion in her eyes.
Told you, my expression says, and she rolls her eyes, still smiling.
“And now,” the announcer says, and the arena falls quiet. “He won us the Cup thirteen years ago and he’s bringing it home again tonight. Hall of Famer, beloved coach, and now part-owner of the Vancouver Storm. COACH . . . TATE . . . WARD!”
The arena is deafening, and my heart. My fucking heart.
I step through the doorway onto the bench and give the arena a wave before looking down at Jordan, applauding beside me, a sharp sting in my eyes.
Our guys tap their sticks on the ice, smiling over at us.
Bea, Holly, Jeff, and Noah are three rows back behind the bench, all wearing my jersey, Bea on her feet, waving at us. I wave back, my heart so full of love.
If only I could have known, during those dark, miserable years, that this moment was in store for me. That there was so much love down the road. Love of the game. Love of my guys and watching them on their own journeys, both in hockey and life. Love of my daughter, my whole world.
Love of Jordan. My other half.
The other team is introduced, Pippa comes out to sing the anthem before taking her seat behind the net again, and the game begins.
It’s three and a half minutes into overtime. The game is tied, two-two. The guys fight with everything they have, hanging on tooth and nail.
They want this so, so badly. We’re so close. They’re exhausted, though. Worn out and running on fumes.
I call a time out and gesture to Miller, who skates over to the bench, breathing hard, sweat pouring off him.
“What do you think? Another shift or do you need a break?”
He’s tired, but determination floods his eyes. “Keep me in. We just need one goal.”
“Owens,” I call down the bench, nodding at the ice. “You’re in, too.”
He climbs over the boards, joining Miller and the other forward, starting their shift.
A moment later, they get their opportunity. Owens passes to Miller, Miller shoots, and the arena crescendos with noise as the fans get excited, but the other team’s goalie deflects the puck.
Miller gets the puck back and shoots again—but it pings off the crossbar. The fans yell in frustration and disappointment. Miller snags the puck again.
Jordan’s hand is over her mouth, her eyes wide as she watches. An urgent desperation tightens in my throat.
“Come on,” she prays. “Come on.”
She reaches for my hand, and I lace my fingers through hers, my pulse in my ears.
Miller shoots again.
I hold my breath.
Time stops.
It goes in.
Noise detonates in the arena—the fans screaming, banging their fists on the glass, the goal horn blaring, fireworks going off from the roof. The guys spill onto the ice, surrounding Miller, Owens, and Streicher. Their expressions are disbelief, shock, and pure elation.
“We won,” Jordan says at my side, tears streaming down her face. “Tate, we won.”
I’m stunned speechless, gaze roaming the arena, at Jeff lifting Bea into the air and Holly screaming, jumping up and down. Every day since I won, all those years ago, I’ve thought about this.
And now it’s real.
My gaze returns home, to Jordan. God, she’s beautiful. It’s chaos around us—fans are throwing jerseys and flowers and signs on the ice while the players celebrate. Volkov’s out there with them, hugging Walker hard. It all blurs to the background, though.
All I see is her.
My eyes drop to her mouth. I need to kiss her. “I know you probably don’t want to give the media more to talk about but—”
“Tate, the Vancouver Storm just won the Stanley Cup. Fuck it.” She grabs me and hauls my mouth to hers. I laugh against her, kissing her back hard.