She gives me a wry, sad smile. “Thought I’d brush up on my skills.”
She could have been great. She could have run this organization one day and been incredible at it. It’s what she was destined for.
Anger hooks in my chest. Whatever happens after this, I’m going to do everything I can to help Jordan find her way back into hockey.
The guys order another round and I watch as she pulls beers from the tap. The amber liquid flows down the side of the glass, forming a thin foam layer along the top.
I hate giving up. I hate failing. I hate losing. And more than anything, I hate leaving the guys behind, and Jordan.
Jordan drops the drinks off before taking the seat beside me, facing the bar.
“Tate.” The side of her knee pushes into mine, dragging my attention to the present. “What’s going on?”
“I want a drink.” The words fall from my lips. I turn to her, shame locking around my lungs like a vise. “I’m not going to have one, not going to blow up a decade of sobriety.” I sound surer than I feel.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with air. With her light scent and the familiar smell of the bar. I wish I could pull heragainst me right now, feel her weight against my chest, her steady breathing.
“But Jordan, I want one.”
I don’t know what I expected in her reaction—disgust, pity, disappointment, maybe, or even sympathy. She just nods, though, pressing her lips together.
“Yeah,” she says.
No judgment, just understanding. Like she knows it’s hard. Like she knows this is a demon that I battle with every day, and today, the demon is strong and I am weak.
I run a hand through my hair. “That’s what you’re supposed to do, when it’s like this.” Overwhelming. Consuming and threatening. “Talk to someone you trust. Someone who matters to you. Someone in your corner.”
Emotion flickers in her eyes. “I’m glad you came here tonight.”
Something locks into place in my chest, a satisfying click that has me thinking of all the times Jordan seemed to enjoy watching me unravel. The way she seems pleased when I sleep well.
“I hate this about myself.” It slips out of me before I can stop it. “After all this time, I still want a drink.”
She blinks, rearing back, a sharp emotion ripping through her expression so fast it takes me a moment to read it: protectiveness. Anger. Fury.
“How dare you talk about yourself like that?” she asks, voice low but firm. Eyes burning into me. “After all the work you’ve put in, to dismiss yourself like that? A lot of people with alcoholism never deal with it. Never break the cycle and raise their kids in an environment free of addiction. I admire you for what you’ve done. It takes strength every day, I know that. And Bea knows that, too. She’ll grow up to be proud of the man you are.”
She studies my face for a long beat.
“I already am,” she admits, looking down at the counter before her gaze shifts back to mine. “And I respect you more than you know.” She bites her lip for a moment. “I’m going to talk to my dad tomorrow morning. Maybe we can strike another deal. We’re, um. We’re getting closer, with our lunches and stuff. Maybe he’s changed his mind. He probably won’t give me the team but maybe he’ll hold off from selling it for another season.” She gives me a half-smile full of uncertainty and hope. “I have to try, though. I’ll never stop trying for these people.”
I thought she was heartless, unforgiving, and cold, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Jordan Hathaway might have the biggest heart of anyone I know.
A feeling grows through me like a sunrise, illuminating all the dark corners of my head and heart. At my lowest, when our season is in the gutter and I feel like a failure on so many levels, I went to her. I was drawn here tonight. When I’m lonely, I reach for her. When I’m uncertain or questioning my choices, I talk to her. The happy moments are better with her present.
I love her.
I love her and I need her, and more than anything, Iwanther. I want her so fucking badly, every part of her. I want to make her mine, have her offer her entire self to me and consume her with greed.
“Tate?” Her eyes search mine, her soft hand on my thigh.
“Yeah.” I blow out a heavy breath, the weight of my feelings settling on my shoulders. I scrub a hand over my face. “I’m okay.”
How long can I keep this from her? I can’t seem to hide things around Jordan.
My thoughts sharpen. Images of Jordan and me—at dinner, on dates. With Bea. On vacation together. Celebrating holidays at home.
