It tastes like poison.
“Hmm.” I repress a laugh. “Matcha tastes different than I remember.”
I refuse to gag or spit it out or tell her it’s terrible, whatever reaction she’s looking for as part of this immature game. Bea does this sometimes, testing my limits to see how far she can push. The key is to not play the game.
“Is that peppermint?” I act pleasantly surprised. “Or toothpaste?”
“It’s matcha,” she repeats.
Well, it tastes like cough syrup.
“Thank you, Jordan.” I hold her eyes, a laugh right under the surface of my expression. “I really appreciate this thoughtful gesture.”
I’m being mature. I’m not reacting so we can end this, not so I can rile her up more.
Her eyes narrow. I smile a little more and lift the cup to take another sip but my hand freezes with the cup in midair as I spot it.
A smear of lip balm, right where my mouth was a moment ago.A pale peachy pink in the perfect shape of her lips. Another thrum of arousal moves through me, landing low in my gut.
What would it be like, to kiss Jordan Hathaway?
“Tate?”
“Hmm?” My head snaps up. Jordan’s giving me an expectant look. It’s the first time she’s called me by my first name, I realize. My name sounds different on her lips.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
She holds my gaze, andagainI feel the urge to laugh at her stupid game. She’s figured it out: I won’t lie.
“It’s something,” I say with a smile.
Competition sparks in her eyes.
“Great.” She leans forward, holding my eyes, and I’m thinking about her lips on my coffee cup again. “I’ll bring you another one tomorrow.”
“That’s very generous, seeing as this probably cost about eight bucks?—”
“Eleven, with tip. But you’re worth it,Coach.”
Another thrum of arousal, stronger this time. Why is her calling meCoachlike that such a turn on? Is it the way her lips shape when she says it?
“I’m going to bring you another drink tomorrow. And the day after. And the day afterthat. And every day until the end of playoffs, because I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care if you think I’m a flake or unqualified or a waste of space.”
I frown. I never said she was a waste of space. I don’t think that. I just think she should take up space somewhere else.
“Like it or not,” she continues, “my unqualified ass is going to save this team from being sold. I’m going to do everything I can to get this team to win the Stanley Cup, and then I’ll be out of your hair forever. Three months, and then I’m gone.”
I don’t understand Jordan Hathaway, and I don’t like her, either, because if I had a father like Ross Sheridan, I’d never shut himout. But this backbone she’s showing me? This determination to keep the team together and prevent it from being sold?
I respect her for it.
“Good,” I say, still holding her eyes. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Confusion appears in her eyes.
“How do you propose we handle the rest of the season?” I ask and she looks even more confused, like this is the last thing she expected.
Her fingers come to her ponytail before she drops her hand. Is that a nervous habit? “You need more centermen.”
