“Take it or leave it,” my father says, like it’s a done deal. “I already have a handful of interested buyers. I’m dedicated to finding the right fit, but what the new owner decides to do once they take over would be out of my hands.”
There it is. Change is coming, unless I come aboard the Storm.
The insecurities that I’ve spent years turning away from—that I’m not good enough, that I will never,everbelong in this world—come racing back, so loud and bright that I can’t ignore them.
This is a terrible idea.
“I want you to take part in the operation of the team.” My father regards me like I’m one of his coaches or players. “I want to see you putting your mark on this organization.”
I’m so unqualified, it’s not even funny.
“I don’t want to own a hockey team.” I can’t believe I even have to say that out loud.
“Well, when the time comes, you can decide what you want to do with it.” Ross gazes at a framed photo on his desk, but I can’t see the image because it’s facing away from me. “I bought this team for you to take over one day, and even if you never speak to me again after playoffs are over, I’m going to do everything I can to see out the future I envisioned.”
What choice do I have? Even if it turns out to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, I have to help my friends.
I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs have shrunk to half-size. “I’ll do it.”
“Great.” My father actually smiles. “That’s great. You’ll start tomorrow, shadowing Tate.”
“What?” Tate and I say in unison before we turn to stare at each other.
No. No, fucking hell, no.
“Tate,” my dad looks to the man beside me, “I’m trusting you to guide and mentor Jordan to the best of your ability. The way you would with anyone in this position.”
Tate stares at him for a long moment before he puts on that polite, neutral expression I hate so much.
He nods, not looking at me. “Understood.”
He hates me, and yet here he is, agreeing to mentor me.
My father gives me a welcoming smile. “Welcome to the Vancouver Storm, Jordan.”
CHAPTER 7
JORDAN
The next day,at what-the-fuck o’clock in the morning, I walk into Tate Ward’s office at the arena. The sun isn’t even up yet but he’s typing at his laptop, dark hair damp, wearing another Fuckable Dad outfit of pale blue oxford shirt, slim dark jeans, and leather boots.
He looks up and surprise flares in his eyes.
I drop into the seat across from his desk. “You can create this fake morning meeting that starts in the middle of the night, but you won’t get rid of me that easily.”
“Good morning, Jordan.” The corner of his mouth twitches like he finds this funny. “Six-thirty is a real time, even if you’ve never seen it.”
His eyes move over my ponytail, my casual clothes, before they linger on the bags beneath my eyes. “Not a morning person, huh?”
I didn’t know how to dress for this, so I wore what I always wear in winter—a wool sweater, jeans, and sneakers. Whatever he expected, he finds me lacking.
Whatever. What I wear has no correlation to what I can do for this team.
“Sure, I am. I love mornings, and I feel great.”
I hate mornings, and I feel like death. I’m still working at the bar in the evenings, searching for a bar manager to take over for the next couple months. I have that gritty, dry feeling in my eyes andacidic nausea in my stomach from the five hours of sleep I managed to get.
“Nowthatis the kind of enthusiasm we love to see in the Storm front office.” He starts to smile, and it sets off another burst of irritation through my blood. “It’s going to be fun, having you around.”
