I didn’t think a physical feeling like that was possible, but with Jordan—I don’t know. She keeps surprising me. Being in love with her is beyond what I expected.
It’s heaven. Pure heaven. And I hope to god it never ends.
“You guys looked good at practice this morning.” She left halfway through to meet with Ross and the VP of staffing and recruitment to discuss expanding the co-op program throughout the organization. “How does Hayden seem?”
The third round of playoffs starts in a few days, and we’re playing Kit Driedger’s team—Darcy Andersen’s ex, and Hayden Owens’s former friend from university.
There’s an underlying worry among Volkov, Miller, Jordan, and me that it’ll get in Owens’s head. He’s the life of the party, the most outgoing, fun-loving guy on the team, but playing against a guy who used to date your now-wife? Not great for focus, I’d imagine.I picture trying to play against any guy who used to be with Jordan and protective jealousy crackles through me.
“He’s a professional,” I tell her with a nod. “He wants to win. I told him to channel any feelings into his game.”
She smiles. “Good. Do you have some time? Say, an hour or so?”
She’s got this look on her face, like she’s up to something. “Yes. Why?”
Her eyes sparkle and she tilts her chin at my gear bag sitting by the door from this morning’s practice.
“Grab your stuff. They’re waiting for us on the ice.”
With my gear bag slung over my shoulder, I follow Jordan down to the rink. Employees are busy working and preparing for the next playoff game, and Jordan greets everyone by name, all of them returning her smile like they know her. Like they’re comfortable with her. Like they respect her.
She leads me to the entrance to the ice. Voices echo around the arena, people joking around, laughing, teasing each other. I step up to the edge of the ice and my heart stops.
Jay Choudhury stands twenty feet away on his skates, wearing his gear and helmet, leaning on his stick as he talks to Rick Miller. I recognize all of these guys, either from playing with them in the NHL or watching them on TV when I was growing up. One guy retired last year and used to play against the Storm.
They’re all ex-NHL players.
“Excuse me, you two,” Ross says behind us and I turn to see him a couple inches taller than normal—because he’s wearing skates, too. I laugh in surprise at seeing my boss, who I haven’t seen play hockey in years, dressed in practice gear. He gives us a good-natured nod. “Sorry I’m late.”
I narrow my eyes between Ross and his gorgeous, scheming daughter. “Late for what, exactly?”
“The game,” Ross says like I should know this. “I need to warm up.”
He steps onto the ice and the guys cheer at the sight of him as he skates a few laps. In the stands, I notice another group of people I’m familiar with.
The current roster of the Vancouver Storm, sitting in the front row, talking and watching.
I look down at Jordan with an expectant smile. “You want to fill me in on what’s happening?”
“I made a few calls.” Her eyes lift to mine before she swallows, almost like she’s nervous. “You miss hockey,” she says, like it’s that simple.
“So you made this happen.”
For me. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, someone noticing my needs and filling them, but I don’t know why I should be so surprised. The Dunkaroos. The drinks. Her encouraging Bea to play guitar.
The mind-blowing sex.
She saw that I missed hockey, that I don’t have peers, and organized this. Jordan Hathaway sees what I need, and she provides it.
“Come on, Daddy Ward,” one of the guys calls, a guy I played with in my rookie year, and the rest of them laugh. “We’re waiting. Get dressed and come play some hockey.”
Twenty minutes later, the Storm watches as I hustle the puck up the ice, my blood pounding and that old competition whistling through me.
Fucking hell, it’s fun. It’s so fun. Exactly what I’ve been missingthese past ten years, along with the teasing jabs and laughs that are part of being on a team.
I snap the puck at the goalie, the 1995 Vezina Trophy winner who I know is one of Jamie Streicher’s biggest inspirations, and it sails past him. On the ice, my team cheers, and in the stands, my guys hoot and holler.
“That’s our coach,” Walker calls, on his feet, and I feel a spike of pride in my chest.
