CHAPTER 72
JORDAN
“Hi,”I say on Friday morning.
We’re at the arena, gathered in the lobby, and everyone quiets down to look at me.
Everyone.
Tate, the team, the analysts, the trainers, the medical staff. Operations, marketing, accounting and finance, legal. The food and beverage team. The styling team who make the merch look nice in the stores. The custodians. The team dentist.
Everyone.
My hands are shaking. I want the team to feel hope, though, so I push my shoulders back and straighten my spine. Tate and I meet eyes, and he gives me that warm, crinkly-eyed smile.
I believe in you. You belong here,he said once.
I take a deep breath. “Thanks for coming, everyone.”
The pro team and the farm team stand in two separate groups—something that will hopefully change by the end of the day, because tomorrow, we’re going to start practicing, and these guys need to feel like one team, not two.
The elevator doors open and my dad slips out, nodding hello at me but staying at the back of the group.
“We’re going to do something different today,” I tell the group. “A team building exercise.”
“Trust falls?” Luca asks, and people laugh. I smile at him.
“No. Not trust falls. A city-wide scavenger hunt.”
I explain the rules, including the stipulation that they can only take a rideshare or car once today and must use rental bikes or public transit for the rest of the scavenger hunt.
A ripple runs through the guys, something electric and competitive as they glance at each other, shifting and straightening up. It’s like their batteries have been charged.
There. This is what we wanted to see. Some life in this team again. Some hope and interest.
“No helicopters,” I add, eyes on Luca, and the guys laugh, including Tate.
I grin. Okay, this isn’t so bad.
“The first team to complete every task wins.” I pause as they all stare at me, waiting. “What, do you want a whistle or something?” I grin. “Go.”
“What in the world is going on with the Vancouver Storm?” the broadcaster asks on the sports news that evening.
The Filthy Flamingo is full of people as we watch the television I finally relented on.
“After a shocking turn of events and a last-minute wild card spot, players were spotted all over Vancouver today in some type of team scavenger hunt.”
Pictures from social media flash across the screen. Luca riding a rented bike along the seawall, taking pictures with fans. Hayden at the Vancouver Public Library with his new library card. Carey playing a busker’s guitar at Granville Island. Jamie with the otters at the aquarium. Rory buying a bun from a bakery in Chinatown. Alexei supervising while some of the younger players hand outtulips at Kitsilano Beach. White tulips meanstarting over, apparently.
It’s a love letter to Vancouver, and a way to show the city that we’ll fight until the end because we love this game.
“Rumors are circulating that this is the work of Jordan Hathaway, Ross Sheridan’s daughter and the likely eventual owner of the Storm.”
A photo of me appears on screen and Georgia catcalls. I cut her a flat look as I grab the remote and turn off the TV.
“Boo,” Luca yells and I flip him the finger before I turn the music back up.
The conversation in the bar resumes, and Tate comes to my side.
