Exactly the kind of player who would fit in with the Storm.
“Hey, everyone.” Rory steps up to the podium, where Tate normally runs the meeting. “Let’s start.”
“Let’s wait until Tate gets here,” I tell him. I may be avoiding him, but he’s still the coach.
Alexei clears his throat in the row behind me. “He said he’d be late.”
I frown. Tate’s never late. The Japanese transit system probably has a framed picture of him at their head office, for how unfailingly on-time he is.
Rory hits play on the laptop and game tape starts, but it isn’t the Storm, and it isn’t recent. It’s old footage from some minors game.
“Let’s take a look at this game from the Storm’s farm team back in 2004. Look at that center glide across the ice.”
The player takes the puck up the ice, skating with powerful strokes, before he effortlessly flicks the puck into the net and the arena cheers.
WARDis on the back of his jersey. Around the room, guys glance over at me, watching my reaction, and my mouth flattens. It’s like the plane, all over again.
Who sent this meeting invite? It wasn’t Tate’s admin, who usually sets them up.
I check my phone. It was Rory.
Huh.
Okay. I see what’s happening here. I thought I was better this week. I barelylookat Tate, let alone talk to him.
“Nowthatguy can play hockey,” Rory says, watching me out of the corner of his eye. “That player sure is going places. Such skill. Such talent.”
Beside me, Luca raises his hand. “Excuse me, Rory? Is that Coach Ward, by any chance?”
I give him a look. “Why are you talking like you’re on a bad sitcom from the nineties?”
“Wow. You know what?” Rory scratches his head, and I roll my eyes. He’s an even worse actor. “I think it is. Huh. What an amazing hockey player Tate Ward is. Let’s see what other clips I have.”
Subtle like a battering ram,Tate once said about me, but has he met these guys?
Rory clicks to the next slide. It’s a clip of the gold medal Olympics game, and yep, there’s Tate, bringing the puck up the ice and scoring the winning goal. I remember that moment, because my dad was on the bench, coaching. The entire country lost their minds. People poured into the streets, high-fiving and hugging and cheering.
Rory whistles. “Look at that golden goal.”
“What a guy,” Hayden says, shaking his head but looking at me. “A Canadian hero.”
I glare at him with death eyes. Beside him, Jamie Streicher shifts, looking uncomfortable. Hayden elbows him.
“He’s very good,” Jamie mutters, not meeting my eye.
Hayden whispers something in his ear and Jamie frowns at him and shakes his head. Hayden gives him a look and Jamie sighs.
“He’s a great father and would be a fantastic husband,” Jamie says like he’s at gunpoint.
I fight the urge to laugh, shaking my head at him, disappointed, and he looks away.
“Now, this goal.” Rory clicks to the next clip. It’s Tate winning the Stanley Cup, shooting the puck into the back of the other team’s net while the arena explodes and the rest of the Storm pile onto the ice. “Thisis the kind of goal that makes Tate Ward the best player of his generation.”
“And so good-looking,” someone calls.
Rory points at him. “Tate Ward is extremely handsome. Case in point.”
He flips to the next slide. It’s theGQspread I was reading to Tate in the bar two months ago.
