“I’m not interested in ending your career so we can win the Cup, Miller.”
“I don’t care if this season is my last!” he bursts out. “Sittingon the bench while my guys need me is my nightmare.” He jabs his finger out the windows at the rink. “That’s my team. Myfamily.”
I rub my palm over my mouth. What’s worse, tearing this team apart or ending Rory’s career before he’s ready?
I ignored the bad feeling I had when we traded Keir. This might not have happened if I had listened to my gut, or if I had pushed to find an enforcer before the trade deadline.
“You’re still the Storm captain,” Tate tells him. “Until your knee is back to playing shape, though, you won’t be on the ice.”
Rory pulls at his hair in anguish, looking like he wants to argue or swear at us, but instead takes a deep breath and carefully makes his way out of the office on his crutches.
“Did we make the right decision?” I ask, eyes on Rory as he waits for the elevator.
A beat of silence. “I don’t know, Jordan. I really don’t know.”
That night, I sit in the back area in silence with the rest of the Storm staff, eyes on the screen, arms tucked across my body, and my brows knitted together.
The score is three-nothing. The other team sinks another goal, and the silence and disappointment from the arena is deafening.
The camera cuts to Tate on the bench, flanked by Alexei and Rory, who insisted on being out there with his guys tonight. The media speculation about his injury is rampant.
The game restarts. The team is frustrated. I can see it in their tight expressions, the harried, impatient way they play. They stop giving themselves space on the ice, rushing for the net and missing what they normally wouldn’t.
Georgia and I meet eyes. She works with athletes at the hospital. She knows how psychological this game can be.
“It’s one game,” she says lightly. “They’re professionals.”
“Yeah. It’s one game.”
We lose four-nothing, and from then on, things get so much worse.
CHAPTER 70
TATE
Two weeks later,after eight losses in a row, I walk through the door of the Filthy Flamingo.
The moment takes my breath away—the guys at the back table, talking quietly. The music playing low. The somber atmosphere.
Jordan behind the bar, hair up in a ponytail and eyes on the drink she’s mixing. She looks up like she senses my gaze, and a small, sad smile curls at her mouth.
I blow out a heavy breath, rubbing the back of my neck. Seeing her feels like coming home.
Tonight was the last game of the regular season. Miller’s injury has decimated this team in ways we couldn’t predict. Losing has been a cancer that has spread through the team, through the organization, and the Storm has plummeted in the standings.
The only way we’ll make it to the playoffs is a wild card spot, and the team who’s going to clinch that tonight is currently up four-nothing in their game.
We’re not going to playoffs. We’re not going to win the Cup. Ross will sell the team, and Jordan’s future with the Storm will crumble to dust.
In Ward We Trust. People wear it on t-shirts and post it on social media. People chant it at games, now more than ever.
I don’t have a plan, though. I don’t know what to do. I’m lost. Everyone put their trust in me, and I didn’t just drop the ball—I smashed it, and now it’s beyond repair.
And right now, I really, really want a drink.
“Hi,” Jordan says when I take a seat.
“Hi.” Between games, practices, and scrambling to stop the downward spiral of losing, I’ve barely seen her. Not in the way I want to, at least. In my bed. In my arms. The team takes precedence right now. “It’s kind of weird, seeing you behind the bar again.”
