“Uh-huh.” If I can find one—and I can somehow get the cat there with my intestines still in my body—I can’t really afford it. My paycheck from the team hasn’t hit my bank account yet.
My gaze swings in the direction I walk to work, to the arena. I have a keycard that gives me twenty-four-hour building access.
“You’re not sleeping in your office, Jordan.”
Irritation singes up my spine that he can read me like this.
“Ask me,” he says.
“Ask you what?”
“You know what.”
I do know what, and I hate that it’s come to this. That he’s my last option. That he’s forcing me to ask for help.
Putting my pride aside, with a sick feeling in my stomach, I take a deep breath and look up at Tate, meeting his eyes.
“Can I crash on your couch tonight,Coach?”
His jaw ticks at me calling him that, but he gives me a friendly smile. “Of course. Come on.”
With the cat in his arms, he heads down the stairs and out of the lobby, and I have no choice but to follow. As he passes the pile of my stuff, he scoops up the box of records and record player and tilts his chin to the white box that appeared yesterday in my office, sitting nearby.
“But first,” he says, “put your goddamned coat on.”
CHAPTER 17
JORDAN
“That wasa big reaction over some records,” he says in the car as my eyelids grow heavy.
I sink deeper into the warm, luxurious seat, wearing my soft, pretty coat and listening to the rain on the roof and roads as we cross the bridge into North Vancouver, where I guess he lives. The cat dozes in the back, and my records and record player are safe beside her. Tate even buckled them up so they wouldn’t jostle on the drive.
“They were my mom’s.”
“Hmm.”
Tate drives the way he plays hockey—with ease, control, and skill. Like my body knows I’m safe when he’s behind the wheel, my eyelids grow heavier, and I take a deep breath to get oxygen to my brain. I will not fall asleep. Not in Tate’s car. I’ll probably drool all over myself and only add to his low opinion of me.
“You can fall asleep,” he says, glancing at me, then back to the road, something in his eyes.
Worry? God, I hope not. I hate that he thinks I can’t take care of myself. I hate that he saw the shitty place where I lived and all my stuff out in the rain.
How am I supposed to help the team win the Stanley Cup if I can’t even keep myself from getting evicted?
“I’m not going to fall asleep.”
“Okay.” He pauses. “But if you do, it’s fine. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”
There’s something different in his voice, something low and comforting that settles my nerves. Like we’re friends. No, like we’re lovers.
I frown out the window, pinching my thigh to snap myself back to reality.
“How’d you lose your mom?” he asks, and I look over. “I’m sorry,” he adds quickly, off whatever my expression is. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s fine. People never ask.” They get weird and change the subject or worse, give me a look of pity. “She had colon cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
