Interest rises in my dad’s eyes, and suddenly, he doesn’t look so old anymore. “I’m listening.”
“What do you want? Weekly lunches? Dinners? You want me to finally accept money from you? What?”
The checks used to arrive every month, and maybe I’m a complete dumbass, because I’m living in Vancouver’s crappiest apartment and barely making ends meet with the bar, but I ripped them up. I didn’t want his guilt money. I didn’t want anything from him.
My father tilts his head, studying me. He could turn me down. He’s been trying to make amends for a decade, and I’ve been ignoring him.
He’s not going to turn me down,I pray.
Tate watches with a frown. Our eyes meet before he looks back to my father.
Ross adjusts in his seat, crossing his arms and sitting back. “I want you to work for the team.”
The office is silent.
“What?” I ask, stupidly.
“Ross.” Tate’s tone is warning. “Do you think that’s wise?”
Ouch. He’s right, though.
My father smiles like he isn’t listening, and his eyes are on two photos on the wall. One of him as a Storm player, hoisting the Cup in the air. The other of him as a coach, watching with a wide smile as Tate lifts the Cup.
“Work for the team,” my dad says, turning back to me, “win the Stanley Cup, and the team is yours, Jordan.”
I make a noise of disbelief. This is some fucked-up dream.
“I...” I blink rapidly. He can’t possibly— “I’m a bartender.”
“Ross, we should talk about this,” Tate says.
“You’re a business owner.” My dad’s eyes stay on me. “With a master’s in sports psychology.”
I don’t have a master’s, though. I dropped out a month before graduation because I got the wrong idea about where I belonged and had my dumb little heart broken into pieces.
Tate turns to look at me with surprise, and god, that’s satisfying, to surprise him like this.
My father’s gaze sharpens. There’s life in his eyes again. A spark that wasn’t there when I walked in.
“She doesn’t even like hockey,” Tate adds. “She barely tolerates the guys. She’s not the type of person I’d put in team management.”
My throat tightens. It’s the image I present to the world on purpose, and yet it doesn’t feel great to have it recited like this.
“We donotneed her to win the Stanley Cup, Ross. We can do it all on our own.”
He’s right about that, at least. “How amIsupposed to win you a Cup?” I ask my dad. “By slinging drinks? Driving the Zamboni?”
“It’s a twenty-hour course to drive the Zamboni,” my dad says, and I can’t tell if he’s joking.
Tate stays silent, arms folded over his chest, but it’s clear from his expression that he’s unhappy with everything about this.
“You grew up around hockey,” my dad says to me. “You specialized in intra-team relationships in sports.” How does he know that? “You worked with the UBC women’s hockey team after Tate left,” how does he knowthat? I ignore the way Tate’s head whips to look at me in surprise, “and your findings led to their winning the division championships.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Tate studying me. I can feel his gaze all over my skin.
“The team won because I left,” I insist. “They were better off without me. Just like the Storm will be.”
I hate bringing up what happened at UBC, but I can’t stand here and let them think I’m fit for this job when I’m really, really not.
