“I found him,” she yells, hurrying over to us. “Tate. I found the guy we need.”
The second round of playoffs starts tomorrow, and we’re playing Los Angeles, Keir Fraser’s team. Keir Fraser, who holds a grudge and injured Rory. Who will probably go after more of our guys in the fight for the Cup.
She stops, eyes all over my bare chest. “You’re shirtless.”
I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead. It’s May, the sun is out, and I’ve been building planter boxes and hauling soil all morning.
I chuckle at the way she gazes at me like she’s picturing things. Between the hectic playoff schedule, travel, and practices, we’ve barely had the energy to say goodnight before collapsing in my bed every night. Feeling wanted like this, though. It’s nice.
“Is that a problem?” I ask.
She narrows her eyes at me but she’s smiling. “You know it isn’t.” She spots my daughter and gives her a quick smile. “Hey, Bee.”
“Hi.” Bea grins back at her and Jordan clears her throat.
“Thanks again for the drawing,” Jordan says, studying the planter boxes, tucking her arms around herself. “I love it.”
“You’re welcome,” Bea tells her, and I give them an odd look. Another drawing? My heart skips a few beats.
This past week, Jordan’s been different. Not in a bad way, just... I catch her looking at me funny, like she’s thinking.
“We made you a garden box,” Bea says, pointing at the middle one. “So you can plant whatever you want. We have lots of seeds. You can do tomatoes, strawberries, zucchini, or sunflowers. I like to do flowers because the bees like them.”
Jordan blinks at the planter box. “You built a box for me?”
“Yeah. My dad did.”
“Oh.” Jordan presses her lips together with emotion in her eyes, sliding a grateful look between Bea and me.
We haven’t talked about what happens after playoffs, whether she’ll stay, but from the look on her face, it seems like she wants to, and Christ, I hope she does.
“Thank you,” she says again.
“You were saying?” I prompt, and she takes a deep breath.
“Right. The league says that once the trade deadline passes, we aren’t allowed to sign a new player who’s affiliated with any organization.”
I see where she’s going with this. “The chance of a guy who’s good enough for the league not being affiliated?—”
“Basically zero,” she finishes, nodding.
“He’d have to have been kicked out of the league.”
It isn’t common, but it does happen, usually when the player exhibits exceptionally poor behavior that reflects badly on the league or team. Getting arrested. Fighting with a fan. Any display of hate language. Extreme and unnecessary violence during a game.
When it does happen, it’s a major news story, even outside of the sports world. Besides being humiliating, it ruins careers.
“Exactly.” A brilliant, hopeful smile spreads across her gorgeous face. Eyes bright like indigo diamonds in the sunlight. “Warren Kilgour.”
I squint, trying to remember. “Fight with his teammate two seasons ago.”
This was with the previous commissioner, an old-guard type who wasn’t well liked in the league.
“His expulsion seemed like an overreaction,” I muse.
She nods eagerly. “And Kilgour didn’t even challenge it. That’s weird, right? That he’d just walk away from playing in the NHL?” She’s practically vibrating, so full of energy as she holds my gaze.
Something hooks in my chest. “We’d have to get permission from the new commissioner. And I want to know what actually happened when he got kicked out.”
