“Hi,” I say into the mic. The papers I’m holding are shaking, so I set them down. The words are a blur in front of me anyway, as my mind spins with the dizzying weight of everyone’s attention. All these reporters. All these cameras. The entire organization watching. The entire city.
“Hi.” I shake my head. “Sorry, I already said that.”
A few gentle laughs before silence resumes.
I can do this. This matters. This is worth it.
I open my mouth to bare my heart.
“Hold on a second, Jordan.”
Tate’s voice has me whipping my head to see him moving through the crowded room. My heart jumps and even though this is my fight, my test, an immediate sense of relief and calm settles through me.
He’s here—my safe space. I’m not alone.
Tate steps onstage and pulls out the chair beside me. “Pardon the interruption. Jordan, would you mind if I said a few words first?”
“Okay,” I manage, blinking.
He takes a seat. “Thank you. It’ll just take a second, and it’s important.” He adjusts the mic and faces the press. “Rory has already said all that needs to be said about Jordan’s role with the team. The Storm is proud to be a feminist organization, and we will not tolerate disrespect of our staff.” His tone and expression are unshakeable. “I’m here to address the personal allegations regarding myself and Jordan.”
A terrifying thought strikes me: His career is on the line. What if he denies it?
I’d die. I’d just die if that happened. And it would be on camera for everyone to see.
No—what? This is Tate. He would never humiliate me like that. He loves me. By preparing for the worst, I let old demons win.
“Jordan Hathaway is kind, thoughtful, intelligent, and funny.”
“Tate,” I interrupt, eyes going wide, my face going hot.
“Hold on, Jordan. I’m sorry to embarrass you, but it needs to be said.” He turns back to the room. “Her heart is bigger than anyonewill ever know. I suspect that there will be calls for my resignation?—”
Alarm snaps through me.
“—but that will not be happening,” he says, the command in his voice making everyone sit up straighter, listen harder. “We are two consenting adults. I recognize that as the head coach, I am above Jordan in the Storm’s org chart?—”
“Tate.”
He looks over at the urgency in my voice. I take a deep breath and address the room.
“As of this afternoon, Tate Ward and I are fifty-fifty owners of the Vancouver Storm.”
Nowthissurprises the organization. Some people hoot, some people start clapping, andeveryoneis looking over at me with proud, pleased smiles.
“Nice,” Luca calls, giving me the thumbs-up.
I’d like to make you a deal,I told my father this afternoon.A new one.
“I was given a role on the team because my father is the owner,” I tell the press. “I grew up with and still hold privileges that many people will never have. I have never played hockey. I’m not a man. I will likely never have the impact on this team that my father has.”
My gaze cuts to Tate’s, his eyes full of pride and affection, and my heart flutters. He nods once at me, ever encouraging and supportive. Tate, Rory, the entire organization has stood up for me, but I want to stand up for myself, too.
“I will continue to give this team everything, because I believe in them. The Vancouver Storm is my team, and working with them is a privilege.” The conviction and belief in my voice rings out around the room, and a weight lifts off my chest. “I will not give up, and you will not get rid of me.”
The room is silent before it breaks out in a roar of applause,cheers, and whoops. Blood rushes to my face as I press my lips together, trying not to smile too hard.
“With regard to the personal allegations,” I look back to Tate, my heart racing in the best way, “I’m in love with Tate Ward.”
