“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “They can.”
“Good.” There’s that smile in her voice again. “You believe in your team. That’s the most important part.”
Ideas pop up in my head, one by one.
“Good luck, Jordan,” Grace says. “I’m rooting for you.”
CHAPTER 38
TATE
“Where’s Jordan?”I ask Volkov in the dressing room, an hour and a half before the game. The guys warm up on bikes, watch game tape on their tablets, and review notes from this week’s practices. A few guys play basketball in the concourse to stay loose.
He looks around with a frown. “I don’t know.”
She’s normally here for this part, the pre-game talk and review, before she hangs out with the rest of the staff to watch the game on the TVs in the back.
An hour later, when the guys are suited up, the arena hums with noise from the fans. The game starts in twenty minutes and she’s still not here.
Her phone goes to voicemail. I call again, same thing. A bad feeling filters through me. I get her voicemail one more time before I call security and tell them to notify me as soon as they find her.
She could be hurt. She could be in trouble.
“Has anyone seen Jordan?” I ask the team, but they give me blank looks and head shakes.
Not good. Really not good. This isn’t like her.
Maybe she decided to leave. Maybe she packed up and left like she did during her master’s program. Is her office empty, upstairs? Is the guesthouse cleared out?
I don’t like this ache in my chest at the idea of her leaving. Idon’t like that I’m hoping she’ll stay. I’ve been down that road before, and it only leads to disappointment.
I look at my watch. The game starts in minutes.
“Coach,” the coordinator calls to me. “We found her.”
In the packed throughway around the arena, I make my way past the sea of Storm fans in jerseys and hats. People fall silent as I pass, not expecting me in this area, especially not ten fucking minutes before the fucking game starts.
I spot her—behind the bar at one of the kiosks selling drinks, pouring beer and keying in someone’s order before they tap their card on the card reader.
“Excuse me,” a woman says, outraged, as I step behind the counter. “You can’t be back here, sir—oh.” She sees who I am. “Coach Ward. Hi.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” I keep my eyes on Jordan, who does a double take at me. “May I borrow one of your bartenders for a moment?”
“Absolutely.” The woman, still wide-eyed, does an awkward bow before heading back to the counter to help customers.
I gesture for Jordan and she follows me to the side of the kiosk. I feel dozens of eyes on us as I take deep breaths to calm myself.
“I called you a thousand times. I was worried.”
“Sorry. It’s been so busy—” She gestures at the line curving around the corner. Every fan wants a drink poured by Jordan Hathaway. “I lost track of time.”
She’s still wearing the same clothes from this morning, the striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but swapped her heels for sneakers and has an apron tied around her waist. The same one the other bartenders are wearing.
“What are you doing?”
She looks... beautiful. Eyes bright, cheeks pink, and full of energy and this pulsing, vibrant intensity.
“I talked to Grace Madueke,” she says.
