TATE
“Tate.”Jordan storms into my office. “Our entire scouting department quit? What the fuck?”
“Good morning.”
She stares at me, waiting, and gestures at me with urgency.
“How are you today, Jordan?”
“Tate.”
I smile. Can’t help myself. I spent the last few days reminding myself to be professional with her, and yet I’m taunting her again. “I’m great, thanks for asking. I hit a personal record at the gym this morning.”
Working out helps with the whole Jordan problem. The overwhelming, interrupting thoughts about her. The inappropriate ideas.
“Good for you.”
The cat deposited another lacy scrap of Jordan’s panties at my bedroom door last night, like she knows I’m struggling. These ones are light pink. So sweet and feminine, so unlike Jordan.
Or maybe not. Maybe she wears pretty, feminine, lacy panties all the time.
She gives me a flat look. “What’s the deal with the scouts?”
I sit back, folding my arms over my chest. “The North American scouts quit.”
“All of them?”
I nod. “We still have three guys in Europe.”
“Shit,” she says under her breath, dropping into the seat in front of my desk, looking so at ease in this office.
She’s wearing a white collared shirt with blue stripes, the sleeves rolled up. Navy blue trousers. A tan high heel peeks out from beneath the hem as her knee bounces, and I see why Volkov is always staring at his wife’s shoes.
“No notice,” I continue, distracted. “They went to Dallas. They’re Bernardi’s old guard.” The previous Storm coach, who was fired in disgrace after a record terrible season. He’s with Dallas now. “They’re loyal to him.”
Worry is written all over her pretty face.
She cares. I knew it. She’s invested. A pulse of reward goes off behind my sternum.
“You’re wearing heels.”
“Hmm?” She looks up at me, frowning, and I nudge my chin to her feet.
“You usually wear boots.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She gives me an odd look. Is she embarrassed? She looks lovely today, and I wish I could tell her. “It wasn’t raining, and it felt wrong to let them sit in my closet.” Her fingers go to the end of her ponytail. “And the stylist included them with this outfit in the booklet, so...” She shrugs.
I know. Page seven.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asks.
I stare at her. About the heels? Think about them constantly, that’s for sure. Are they comfortable? Do her feet hurt at the end of the day?
“We still have gaps in the team,” she says.
What are you going to doabout the scouts, she meant. I’m a fool.
“We still have cap space to spend,” she continues, talking faster. “And you have your hands full. There’s no way you have time to look for prospects.”
