That afternoon,I join the call with the scouts.
I’ve read through all their profiles on the website, but this is the first time I’m sitting in on a call with them. The Storm has eight scouts, five in North America and three in Europe. The men range in age from thirties to sixties, all ex-hockey players, whether it was at college or in the minors or in the NHL. Some of them coached.
I clear my throat. It’s a couple minutes early, and Tate hasn’t joined yet, but I know I should introduce myself.
“Hi, everyone,” I start, nerves fraying.
An older white guy in his sixties joins the call before anyone can respond. Gary, based in Detroit. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he says, and I fall silent.
Gentlemen. An ugly feeling seethes through my stomach. When people address the team, it’s one thing. But Darcy and I are clearly present. I give him a moment to realize his mistake.
“Jimmy, how’s life up in the Arctic Circle?” he asks the scout based in Northern Ontario, who laughs.
No acknowledgment. And he doesn’t even say hello to me.
Does he realize what he said?I text Darcy.
On the little square with her screen, her eyes flick down as she reads the message on her phone, before her mouth tips up in a humorless smile.
Oh, yeah,she responds.He says that every time.
An uneasy feeling tightens in my throat. So the two women in the meeting are either invisible, unwelcome, or both.
“Good morning, everyone,” Tate says, joining the meeting. Through the glass walls of our offices, I can see him at his desk. “I assume you’ve all met Jordan Hathaway. She’s shadowing me for the rest of the season.”
Silence. Okay. Great.
“Welcome,” Darcy says with a broad smile, and I’m grateful for her.
Also, furious that she’s been dealing with this and no one knew. No one did anything. Did Tate know?
No. I don’t know or like him, but I know he didn’t know.
“Let’s discuss the team’s needs as we approach the trade deadline,” he says. “Along with Volkov and Miller, Jordan and I will meet with Yang-Hanson with Seattle when we play them later this week.”
Gary makes a face and shakes his head. “We’ve already looked at him. Not interested.”
He has this way about him that I don’t like. A finality, but not in the hot way like Tate has sometimes. In a close-minded,my way or the highwayway.
“Oh?” Tate raises an eyebrow.
“We already looked at him,” Gary says, and my eyebrows go up at his tone, as if it’s final.
A long, loaded pause makes my pulse pick up, and I try to sit still and not look like I’m about to puke from the sudden attention on me.
“Well,” Tate says without a smile, “thanks for your input. We’re looking again.”
Gary the Fuckhead opens his mouth to say something before thinking better of it and shutting up, and I look down at my notes, smiling with satisfaction. Fuck you, Gary.
CHAPTER 23
TATE
The callwith the scouts is finishing up when Gary, my least favorite member of the Storm organization, speaks again.
“I just don’t understand why we’re looking at Yang-Hanson.”
“Jordan feels that he’d be a valuable contributor to our team.” My tone is curt, because we’ve already decided this. Hopefully, Gary can take the hint and stop talking. “That’s all for today. Soren,” I say to the scout based in Sweden. “Looking forward to hearing from you after the Allvenskan playoffs?—”
