Seeing Tate Ward enjoy something makes my insides feel jittery.
He blinks, clears his throat, and puts the cup down, before thinking better of it and sliding it a few inches farther away. I have an overwhelming urge to make him take another sip.
I want to hear that noise again.
“You’re always here so early,” I blurt out. Anything to make this weirdness go away.
“I go to the gym in the mornings.” So that’s why his hair is always damp. That’s why he always smells so good, fresh and clean and intoxicatingly male.
“Such a hard worker, Coach.”
His eyes drop to my coat and he exhales hard.
“You should call me Tate,” he says, still staring at my coat with an edge to his eyes, “and you should get a better jacket.”
I look down at the sleeve of my corduroy jacket. The hem is fraying. Something more professional, he means.
“Since you refuse to wear mine,” he adds, and before I can respond, the phone rings. He answers, eyes on me. “Goodmorning, Ross.”
That afternoon, I step out of the elevator and bump straight into a hard male chest.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Whoa.” His hands come to my shoulders to steady me, but I step back, heat crawling up my neck as I get a lungful of Tate’s clean scent. “You okay?”
He’s swapped out his Fuckable Dad outfit for something more casual. A t-shirt and athletic joggers, his hockey gear bag slung over one big shoulder. Chiseled biceps on full display.
Fuckable Dad Goes to the Gym, this look would be called.
“Uh-huh.” My voice sounds too high. “Working out again?” I try not to stare at the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest. “What’s the matter, getting up at fourAMisn’t enough torture for you?”
The corner of his mouth slides up and there’s that funny fizz in my chest again. I thought I liked getting on his nerves, but I can’t stop thinking about the noise he made when he had that drink this morning. Caramel marshmallow.
Does Tate Ward have a secret sweet tooth? He’s so responsible and controlled andgood. He would never.
“I’m testing out a prospect with Miller and Volkov,” he says, studying me. At whatever he sees, he frowns. “Take off early, Jordan. You’ve had a long week.”
The longest. Between arriving at the arena for the morning call with my dad and closing up the bar in the evenings while I try to find a bar manager, I am fucking exhausted. The second I get home, I’m going to sleep for twenty hours straight, until my shift starts tomorrow afternoon.
Wait. Prospect? “Who are you thinking about trading for?”
“Liam Hutton.”
He starts to move past me into the elevator but I step into his path.
“With New Jersey?” I make a face. I forget how tall he is until he’s right in front of me like this. “Are you kidding?”
His eyebrow goes up. The elevator doors try to close but he lifts a hand to stop them. “The scouting team recommended him.”
“He’s a selfish puck hog.” I’ve seen him play against the Storm. He’s talented, sure, but he’s like who Rory Miller used to be.
Tate studies me, frowning. “I see a lot of potential in him.”
“I’m not saying he doesn’t have talent or potential. I’m saying he’s not the right fit. Our guys are not the right group for him.”
The strength in my voice surprises me. I sound so sure. I am, though. I know Hutton isn’t a good fit for this team. This is what I specialized in during my master’s, how team dynamics change with individual players.
The master’s that I didn’t complete. The work that ushered the UBC team into a losing streak, a tiny, ugly voice reminds me.
