When he says it like that, in his low, steady voice, holding my eyes like that, I believe him. I believe it’s all going to be okay.
“Okay?” he asks, eyebrows lifting, and when I nod, he relaxes. “Good.”
This is the part where he should leave, but instead, he watches me.
“Why didn’t you finish your master’s?”
Alarm races through me and my eyes widen. “How did you know about that?”
“Jay told me.”
“Jay Choudhury?”
He nods. The UBC women’s hockey coach who let me work with the team for my thesis.
“Why did you—” I’m warm. “You talked to him?”
He nods again. “I wanted to know what you could do. He had exceptional things to say about you and your work.” There’s that studying, searching gaze again. “So I want to know why you didn’t finish.”
“I realized I was in the wrong field,” I rush out, not looking at him. “Why waste my time, you know?”
He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the kitchen counter. “From everything I’ve seen, hockeyisthe right field for you.”
I scramble for an excuse, a lie, but lying to Tate suddenly feels so wrong. “It’s not important.”
“It feels important. Elaborate for me, Jordan.”
He studies me like more than anything, he wants to understand, and for some reason, I think my secret might be safe with him. Maybe it’s because of how kind he was when I cried in the closet.
“I suggested some changes to the team.” I tuck my arms around my stomach to quell the discomfort. I hate thinking about what happened. “It went well for a while and then it didn’t. We were—theywere winning. Everyone was in a good mood. Nothing solves a team’s problems like winning. They’d all come to the bar where I worked and celebrate. I’d give them free drinks even though I wasn’t supposed to.”
Stop talking, Jordan. I hate admitting that last part. That I was so eager for friends and acceptance that I jeopardized a good solid job.
“And then?”
“One of my suggestions didn’t work. A play I had designed with the coach. They started losing. Someone got injured.” My stomach, my lungs, my chest. Everything feels tight. “They stopped showing up to the bar after games. No one wanted to celebrate anymore. And I heard them talking.” I study my hands. “Wondering why I was still with the team if they weren’t winning anymore. Wondering what the point was of having me around.”
“So they lost a few games and they blamed you.”
“No—”
“And then they turned their backs on you.”
He sounds mad. Really mad. His eyes flash and his jaw tenses. Tate doesn’t look so patient anymore.
“No.” I swallow hard past the rocks in my throat. “There was no point of me being around anymore. I had a job to do and I failed.”
“You were a student. And even people with years of experience make mistakes. People screw up. There are so many people involved in a team, Jordan.” He shakes his head like he’s frustrated. “Why was it all on you?”
I don’t answer. I wish I hadn’t told him any of this.
“So you quit and opened a bar.”
“I bartended weekends and evenings to pay for as much school and rent as I could. I liked the idea of doing my own thing, hiring good people and making good drinks.” Having somewhere people can come to socialize. Being around people, but not involved. Being part of a group, but not really.
He takes a deep breath and pushes off the counter, stepping into my space. My pulse jolts, his scent surrounds me and he’s way,waytoo close but I don’t mind at all.
“Jordan.”
