It was one of the best physical experiences of my life. Deeply comforting. I keep thinking about how his chest felt, his steady heartbeat. The way he seemed to relax under me.
He doesn’t sleep well, I think, but he did when I was there.
I don’t know what we’re doing.
“I just want to focus on the game,” I say, as the self-conscious feelings rise.
She studies me before pulling out her phone. “While we’re waiting, there’s something I wanted to show you.”
She opens her social media app. My stomach drops through the floor, and I grab the phone to look closer.
It’s a photo of me leaving the arena. Maybe last week? I was grabbing a late lunch before the game. I’m wearing a long pencil skirt, crisp striped shirt, and heels. My hair’s up in a sleek ponytail. I look... professional.
And kind of hot.
Jordan Hathaway looking the part of future owner of the Vancouver Storm,the caption reads.
“What is this?” I go to the account’s main page, scrolling through the photos. There’s a woman in a navy suit, sitting courtside at a basketball game. Another woman on the sidelines at a football game, wearing a windbreaker. A woman at a press conference. The new Vancouver women’s hockey team coach at an event.
“It’s an account for women in sports,” Georgia says as I hand her phone back.
“Why am I on there?”
She smiles. “Because you’re a role model.”
I blanch. “No, I’m not.”
“You are, Jordan. Whether you want to be or not. There’s a lot of young women looking up to you.”
This should scare me. It should make me uncomfortable that people are watching.
Instead, my motivation to get the Storm to the Stanley Cup grows. Let them watch, because I’m doing everything I can to win.
It’s the end of the first period when my father takes the empty seat beside me in the area between the dressing room and the bench. Everyone goes quiet for a moment before the light chatter resumes.
They’re getting used to him being around more. I wish I could say the same.
“Good evening, Jordan,” my father says, keeping his eyes on the TV showing the game, his tone friendly and polite, like he’s greeting a colleague.
“Hi.” I watch the game, seeing nothing.
“How are things going?”
“Good. Colworth is playing well?—”
He turns to me with a small smile, like I’ve done something cute. It makes him look younger, like the dad I grew up with. I don’t like the sharp yank in my chest.
“This isn’t a morning call. How are things going foryou? How do you like working with the team?”
“Oh. Um.” I nod. “Yeah, it’s good.”
He waits.
“It’s interesting, shadowing Tate and learning how much he does for the team. He’s in a unique position, acting as both the coach and GM.”
He nods. “He wanted me to hire a GM.”
I think about how he’s always either working or with Bea. “He has a lot going on. Not that he can’t handle it,” I rush to add. “He’s the best coach in the league.”
