“I disagree,” Tate says before his hands come to my shoulders and he gently moves me aside.
Maybe he’s right. I’ve been wrong before.
He steps into the elevator. “Oh, and Jordan?”
Something sparks in his eyes, and my attention hooks on it. “I left something in your office for you. A little welcome gift from the team. I wanted to say thank you again for going the extra mile with all those drinks this week. That’s the kind of team spirit we love to see around here at the Vancouver Storm.”
I should be annoyed at how he’s playing this game, but I feel like laughing. Ihatethis, that he pulls this reaction out of me.
Before I can say another word, the elevator doors close.
I head to my office, expecting something terrible inside the white box on my chair with a big silky bow around it. A dirty sock, maybe, or the dried corpse of his daughter’s pet lizard. One ofthose compressed snakes that springs out or a glitter bomb that will coat me in sparkles.
Beneath white tissue paper, though, my fingers find soft fabric. Soft like a baby’s blanket.
Oh.
It’s a coat. A rich camel color. The fabric is soft and luxe—cashmere and Italian wool, according to the tag. Shiny gold buttons, a silky lining, and a big collar to keep me warm.Holt Renfrew,the tag reads, but the price has been removed. It’s a luxury department store downtown that I can’t even afford to look in the windows of. I’m willing to bet that this coat cost several months’ rent.
Something sings through me as I run my fingers over the soft fabric. This is already the nicest thing I’ve ever owned. Georgia is going to flip.
Welcome to the team,the card says in scratchy, masculine writing.From your very patient boss, Tate Ward.
Okay. So this is how it’s going to be? I ignore the warm, bubbly feeling in my chest that Tate Ward got me a pretty, expensive present, and focus on the fact that he isfucking with me. I see exactly what he’s doing. I go low, he goes high.
That’s fine. I grin. Tate Ward doesn’t evenknowhow low I can go.
CHAPTER 13
TATE
Liam Hutton is notour guy.
“That was yours,” Hutton calls to Miller as they run a play at the empty arena, while Volkov and I watch from the boards.
She was so certain. How did she know? Does she know him personally?
“Yep,” Miller calls back with an edge to his tone, his good-natured, easygoing way having disappeared about two minutes after he started playing with Hutton.
And why does she look so tired every day? Does she hate waking up early that much, or is it more?
Is she okay? What’s with the scratch on her hand? It looked like it was healing when I caught sight of it this morning.
No. I’m not doing this. I’m not getting invested in Jordan Hathaway. Look how she treats her father, the man who gave her everything. I’ll mentor her and encourage her in her role, but I’m not going to worry about her well-being more than any other employee’s.
I would worry if any employee looked tired, though. I would ask questions.
“Miller doesn’t like him,” Volkov mutters under his breath to me as we watch from the bench.
I exhale slowly. “Yeah.”
“Miller likes everyone.”
That’s not your guy,Jordan said.I know these guys, and he’s not going to fit in with them.
The part of me that makes me a good coach, the part that thrives on recognizing potential in people, snags on her. I had it with all my people—Streicher, Miller, Owens, Volkov, Walker. Dr. Greene, when I scooped her up from the local hospital program. Pippa Hartley, who I thought would make a damn good assistant to Jamie Streicher. Those two worked together so well that they’re now married. Darcy Andersen, when I realized her aptitude for statistics matched her knowledge of hockey. Hazel Hartley, when I received the stellar recommendations from her physiotherapy program and saw her work.
That’s all it takes. Passion and skill. That’s why all of us are here.
