“Jordan seems like a nice girl,” Gary interrupts, like she isn’t there. “But why are we listening to a bartender instead of guys who know what they’re doing?”
Protective anger races through me and my shoulders tense. Through our office walls, I see Jordan fold her arms around herself.
She’s embarrassed. She’s smaller than a second ago. Her face is blank and neutral, her cool mask in place, and I hate that. I hate that she feels the need for armor. My job is to make sure people feel supported.
I turn back to the meeting. “Gary, don’t call grown womengirls. It’s inappropriate and condescending.”
Fuck Gary. He’s not terrible at his job but he isn’t good, either. I’ve never had a reason to fire him, but I’ve never liked him, and now I don’t feel bad about thinking that.
“You know what I mean,” he says easily.
“Jordan has an incredible aptitude for predicting how players will integrate into our team. She grew up around Ross Sheridan, so she’s probably spent more time under an arena roof than any of you have, and she’s abusiness owner. That bar happens to be the team’s favorite place to socialize. She knows them.” I let my words sink in. “How many of you can say that?”
Scouts spend half the year on the road, in hotel rooms, scoping out prospects. Not a single one lives in Vancouver. They don’t know the team; they don’t even know each other unless it’s from their playing or coaching days.
“Can I be frank for a moment?” Gary asks.
My teeth grit. I don’t want to hear whatever he’s about to say.Can I be frankis usually code forCan I be rude and inappropriate. “You can be honest but respectful.”
“It’s obvious what’s happening here.”
Through the glass, Jordan and I meet eyes.
“Is it?” I ask lightly.
“Her dad is the big guy and now she’s calling the shots.”
Another powerful shot of protective anger courses through me, and at the same time, Jordan exits the virtual meeting. Across the hall, she stands. Her face is a stone mask, but there’s a panic to her eyes as she strides out of her office, spine rigid, not looking at me.
The urge to follow her pounds through me. I need to check on her. I need to make sure she’s okay.
But first, I need to put Gary in his place.
“Gary, tell me,” I ask, my voice calm, “how did you get hired on the Storm?”
“I played in the NHL for six years and then coached Dallas’s farm team?—”
“I didn’t ask for your resumé.” I’m using my tone that makes everyone sit up straighter and listen harder. The one that makesthe dressing room go silent. “I asked how you got hired. Did you apply for a job posting?”
Gary’s face goes red with frustration. “That’s not how it works.”
“How does it work?”
He knows how it works. We all do.
“I used to play with the old coach. We know each other from?—”
“You knew each other.” The patience is gone from my voice. “You were buddies. Did you interview?”
“No, but?—”
“Did anyone else interview for the position?”
“No—”
“Wasn’t the old Storm GM your brother-in-law?”
He doesn’t answer.
