I have no delusions about a life with him and Bea. The teamwill be sold, and Tate and I will probably both be fired, and we’ll have no reason to see each other.
It’s not like it would work out, anyway, an ugly voice says. People like me don’t get chosen. People like my mother do, like Georgia, those outgoing, sparkly, charismatic types.
Not me, though. I tried to belong, I gave it everything, and the universe proved me wrong.
“I thought we had more time,” I whisper.
With the team. With each other.
I picture a different way it could have been. If we got into playoffs.
“I’d shake things up,” I say without thinking.
Tate gives me a questioning look.
“If we got a wild card spot.”
The four wild card spots are the lowest-ranking teams to make it into playoffs. They’re paired with the highest-ranking teams for the first round and rarely make it further.
Ideas start pinging in my head, a welcome distraction from the things I don’t want to feel.
“I’d get the farm team up here for a practice, and we’d try every possible line and pair combination. What we were doing wasn’t working, so I’d start fresh, give the guys a sense of something new, a clean slate. Maybe there’s someone we missed with the farm team or some combination we didn’t think of.”
Tate studies me with interest and momentum builds in my chest. It feels good to finish the season differently, even if it’s in my head. To do it on our own terms.
“But before that,” I continue, “I’d do something fun.”
Tate’s mouth curls up in that affectionate way.
“Something dumb and competitive. Get them working together as a team again, to pull at the parts of themselves that love a challenge.”
Tate nods, smiling more. “There was a team dinner a few seasons ago, when Miller joined. We played a game of Assassin.”
Pippa teased Hazel after that, something about a victory kiss with Rory. “Exactly like that. I’d do it with the whole organization, though.” I bite my bottom lip. “Because each person matters.”
Emotion rises in his eyes. “Maybe we should do that, anyway. Let’s end the season on a high note. Give them one last good memory.”
This must be whatbittersweetfeels like. “Ross can pay,” I add, and Tate laughs.
There’s that odd, flipping feeling in my chest again. Tate’s eyes drop to my mouth, and he presses his lips in a firm line like he’s holding back.
“Do something for me, Jordan.” The strong line of his throat moves as he swallows. “Put your head on my shoulder.”
There’s a scrape to his voice like he needs this, and I have the unbearable urge to give Tate Ward exactly what he needs. Instinctively, I lean into him, resting against the crook of his neck.
“Like this?” It’s so comfortable, as if this spot was designed for me.
He lets out a long, slow breath. “Exactly like that.”
The song ends but Tate doesn’t let me go, and I don’t move, and the next song starts. I could stay here all night, leaning my head on Tate’s warm chest.
A knock has us pausing, the music still playing around us.
“Ignore it,” Tate says in my ear.
“It could be important.”
I feel the shake of his head against my temple, his lips pressing against my hairline. “This is important.”
