“Eric.” I look to the scout based in Florida, a guy in his thirties who looks like he wants to disappear. “Your father coached for Toronto, didn’t he?”
Eric gives me a short nod. “Yep.”
“Hans, you played in the NHL with Ross.”
Hans nods, also looking deeply uncomfortable. Good. They should be uncomfortable. They sat around and did nothing while Gary was rude to Jordan. They deserve this.
“Many of you used your connections to get a job on the Storm. The players aren’t the only teammates in this organization. I don’t want to hear a derogatory comment like that again, and if I do, I won’t hesitate to make organizational changes. This meeting is over. Thank you.”
I close my laptop. It’s time to find Jordan.
CHAPTER 24
JORDAN
The secondI close the supply closet door, the tears fall.
Gary is a fucking asshole, but he’s right. I’m here because I’m Ross Sheridan’s kid. I’m not self-made like my parents, I’ve been handed this position. Who the hell am I? No one. I have a famous, talented father and that’s it. I have no experience playing hockey.
I don’t belong here.
I feel sick. Every cell in my body wants to go straight back to my bar, where I can fade into the background. Where there are no expectations of me and no one cares who my father is. Where no one notices me.
The door moves against me but I’m standing in the way.
“Occupied,” I say in a shaky, high voice.
Please go away, I pray. I don’t want anyone to see me falling apart.
“Jordan?” Tate’s low voice comes through the door and my eyes close.
Anyone but him.
“I’m fine,” I call back, wiping my eyes. “I’m just looking for a stapler.”
“Let me in, please.”
There’s something in his voice that simultaneously calms me and makes me want to do as I’m told. I move out of the way, put my hands over my face, and the door opens.
Even with my eyes closed and my hands over my face, even without him touching me, his presence consumes the tiny space. I feel his gaze on me like a weight and hear him take a sharp inhale.
“Gary is the stupidest person I’ve ever met,” he says quietly, and I huff a watery laugh.
He takes a deep breath, and I feel his exhale rustle my hair. His scent fills the small space, clean, masculine, and deeply comforting.
“Can you look at me?”
“No.”
“Please.” His hands come to mine and gently, he pries them from my face.
The look in his eyes goes straight to my heart. The gentleness of his warm, strong hands, still holding mine, is nothing compared to that in his eyes. Soft and affectionate butfurious. His jaw ticks and he lets out a slow, deliberate breath as he lets my hands go.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” I whisper, sniffling and wiping my face again.
He holds my eyes with so much care, attention, and patience that my heart aches. “There’s no shame in crying. It’s good for us. Hayden Owens does it all the time.”
I huff out another wet laugh, wiping at my eyes. “Is my face all red and puffy?”
