“Why?” Rory asks, and Tate’s eyes narrow as he chooses his words.
He’s going to tell them the truth about the fate of the team, I realize, as a resigned expression crosses his face.
Everyone wants the Stanley Cup. For any NHL player, it’s a given. Piling on the stakes isn’t going to motivate them more, it’ll just cause them stress. It might backfire and make them play worse.
“My dad owns the team,” I blurt out before Tate can say anything.
Everyone stares at me, jaws dropping. Heat prickles over my face.
“Holy shit,” Luca says. “Your dad is Ross Sheridan?”
“Yes.” My pulse trips and I try not to make eye contact with Tate, who is staring a hole in the side of my head. “And I’ve decided to work for him.”
“But you hate hockey,” Hayden says, scratching beneath his helmet. “You won’t let us put it on at the bar.”
I shift with discomfort. I never hated hockey, I just hate how it reminds me of being rejected. Tate waits patiently, watching me squirm.
“I’ve had a change of heart.” I shrug. “And I’m ready to learn the family business.”
It’s not a lie, not really. So I leave after playoffs are over. If everything goes according to plan and they win the Stanley Cup, they’ll be so over the moon that they won’t care.
What plan?my brain whispers, and I do not fucking know.
“Now that we’re all caught up and warmed up.” Tate reaches behind the bench and pulls out a marker and a clipboard with the rink lines on it. “Let’s talk about the play we’re practicing today.”
After the team has been briefed and they’re practicing, Tate skates to the bench, where I watch, unable to hear half of what they’re saying on the ice.
Some shadowing job I’m doing.
“What was that?” he asks quietly, leaning against the board but keeping his eyes on the ice, and I know he’s asking about earlier.
“We can’t tell them the truth.” The deal I made. “They’ll freak out. It’ll get in their heads and distract them.”
He puts his hands on his hips, frowning, and there’s something about the way his mouth looks that pulls my attention. Talk about distracting. “I don’t like lying to the team. They’re professionals. They aren’t children. They can handle it.”
“My gut is telling me it’ll do more harm than good,” I insist. I don’t know where this is coming from or why I know this, but Idoknow it—telling the guys that their team could be sold if they don’t perform will negatively impact their performance. “I know pressure motivates these guys, but this crosses the line.”
Tate studies me, before he looks away and takes a deep breath.
“Fine.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but his gaze cuts down to where I’ve got my arms tucked against myself, trying to stay warm in the cold arena.
“Where’s your jacket?” he asks with an edge to his voice, like I’ve done something wrong.
“Upstairs.” In my office.
He sighs and unzips his. I barely have time to protest before he takes it off, drops it into my lap, and skates off in his t-shirt to where the guys gather at center ice. I’m frustrated at his uttergoodness,the way he’s so selfless and kind, but my attention goes to his arms. He’s always in an oxford shirt, suit, or jacket, so seeing him in a t-shirt, with his perfectly toned biceps on display like this, the soft fabric stretching across his shoulders, it’s?—
Annoying.
I push his jacket aside, and when he looks over at me from the ice, he pauses whatever he’s saying to the guys, his eyes narrowing.
I straighten up a little more, a zing of something electric and fizzy moving through me. Adrenaline filters into my bloodstream and I feel that dip in my stomach.
After practice ends, the guys file off the ice and Tate retrieves his jacket from the bench.
“Bring your jacket tomorrow, J-dawg.”
