“You’re not supposed to tip the owner.” He knows this. I tell him every time.
“My mistake,” he says over his shoulder, halfway to the door. “I forgot.”
He does it to bother me. “You must be getting forgetful in your old age,” I call after him.
With his back to me, he laughs, low and dry, a sound that goes straight to the spot between my stomach and lungs. The joke doesn’t land, because Ward makes forty look fucking incredible, and he knows it.
“Have a great rest of your day, Jordan.”
The door opens and closes, and I’m alone again.
I look down at the receipt and crumple it into a tiny ball of rage. He tipped a hundred percent.
Again.
CHAPTER 2
TATE
“Good evening, everyone.”
In the dressing room at our home arena, minutes before the game starts, the Vancouver Storm falls silent. The players are in their uniforms, warmed up and ready to play, and I’m at the front of the room in my suit.
“We win this one and we’re at the top of the division.”
Anticipation sparks in their eyes. The captain, record-setting goal scorer Rory Miller, and right winger Hayden Owens exchange a grin.
Professional hockey players are all the same: We’re competitive as hell, and we love to win.
“I have a challenge for you tonight,” I tell them. “Slow the plays down. When you get the puck, take a moment. Can the other team predict the play? Where’s the goalie looking? Where are your guys?”
“Is this the time to take a risk?” Miller asks, running a hand through his dark blond hair. “Why not try it out on an easier team?”
Alexei Volkov, a veteran enforcer who retired last season to become my assistant coach, asked me the same thing this afternoon. It’s a fair question, and it shows me that Miller is strategizing the way a great captain should.
“We’re second in the division,” I tell the team. “We have three months until playoffs. I’m challenging you because I know you cando it, and because it’ll make the win that much sweeter if we have to work for it. If it doesn’t go well, we have time to recover.”
“Now’s the time to take risks if it means stronger development,” Volkov adds.
“Exactly.” I look to Miller. “You’re the captain, Miller. If you don’t think tonight’s the night to try, we won’t do it. We’re a team. Everyone has to buy in.”
Miller considers this before his mouth pulls into his trademark roguish grin. “Let’s do it.”
“Good man. Okay,” I say to the rest of the room, “let’s get out there and do what we love.”
That’s the great motivator—that we love this game, we love our teammates like a family, and we love the way our hearts race when the puck hits the back of the net. We love the roar of the crowd and the flashing lights, the way the fans pound their fists on the glass in enthusiasm, celebrating the goal with us.
We love to win, but welovethe challenge.
It doesn’t matter that an injury forced me into retirement. It doesn’t matter that I wear a suit instead of a jersey. I will always be a hockey player.
The opening music plays in the arena, the lights go down, and the crowd cheers as the players hit the ice. Volkov and I step onto the bench and I scan the crowd behind us.
A couple rows up, the world’s cutest, funniest, kindest nine-year-old waves with enthusiasm. I can see the gap where she lost her front tooth the other week.
I grin at Bea, my daughter. On either side of her, her mom, Holly, and Holly’s husband, Jeff, wave. Bea stands and turns to show me the name on the back of her child-sized jersey.
WARD.
