He leans back in his chair, his eyes flicking to the framed photo on his desk. It’s facing away from me, but I can see it in my mind’s eye—his late wife and the daughter who won’t give him the time of day. Jordan’s about eighteen in the photo.
I wish I knew what happened between them. Ross has never volunteered the information, Jordan would die before confiding in me, and I’ve never felt it’s my place to pry.
But Jesus, I want to know. Ross is like the father I never had. It kills me to see his callous daughter treat him like this.
“How’s my girl?” he asks.
“Good. Fine. The usual.”
He hums, glancing out the other windows, the ones that look over Vancouver, bustling with lights and traffic and people heading out to celebrate the win.
“She seems happy?”
“Happy enough.”
Have I ever even seen Jordan Hathaway smile? She’s so serious all the time, mixing drinks behind her bar and giving Luca Walker unimpressed stares when he tries to flirt with her.
“Is she seeing anyone?”
Something twists in my gut. A few years ago, some guy followed her around the bar like a puppy and sang thinly veiled songs about her while she barely noticed him. Were they together? I haven’t seen him in a while.
What would that be like, to date Jordan Hathaway? She may be stunning, but she’s so guarded and cold. It would be like dating a painting in a museum.
Not that I would know what dating is like. It’s been years.
“You don’t like her, do you?” Ross asks with a little smile, interrupting my thoughts.
I clear my throat. “What makes you think that?”
“You’re uncomfortable.”
I take a deep breath. There aren’t a lot of people who tell Ross the truth, but I know he relies on me to be honest.
“Ross, she’s...” I shake my head, searching for the words. Jordan Hathaway is a closed book. I can usually read people, but she gives me nothing. “It’s been a decade and she still doesn’t want a relationship with you. She’s thirty years old. She doesn’t need you checking in on her.”
He looks down, pain washing over his features, and I hate giving him the hard truth like this. I swallow. Ross Sheridan was the best coach I ever had. He made me the best player I could be. When my life fell apart after my injury, and I was in the pit of alcoholism and depression and found out I was going to have a daughter, hehauled me into rehab. After, Ross got me a job coaching women’s hockey at UBC.
He’s the reason I’m the coach and father I am today. And that’s why I owe him the truth.
“It’s time to let go and move on,” I say as gently as possible.
It’s what I wish someone had told me.
He lets out a short laugh. “You’retelling me to move on?”
“I know.” It’s my greatest weakness, that once I see the potential in someone, I can’t give up on them, and it’s bitten me in the ass more than once. “Some people are emotionally unavailable, though.”
You can hope and wish someone will come back, but sometimes they never do. Look at my own father. Emotionally unavailable people will leave you every time.
“You’re right,” Ross says quietly. “It’s time to move on, and that’s why I called you here tonight.” His eyes meet mine, serious and sad. “Tate, I’m selling the team.”
My heart drops. Seconds pass, and I’m speechless.
“What?” I shake my head, confused. “No.” This team is his life’s work. He was a player, a coach, and now the owner. “You love this team.”
“I do, but I can’t own the team forever, and Jordan’s not—” He cuts himself off. “It’s time for me to move on.”
Jordan’s not interested in taking over,he was going to say.
