Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

Rhonda

Rhonda walked down the sidewalk between the ultra-modern apartments on either side of her. They were painted in earthy colours, all straight lines and metal railings. It had only been half an hour since she left the hospital, but it felt like a year with all the thoughts playing battle bots in her head. She wasn’t going to tell him where she lived.

Listening to Coldplay on the way over had only accomplished so much. She couldn’t expect Chris Martin to put her completely at ease in a situation like this. Especially when she knew damn-well she shouldn’t be here. But what were the other options? Do this at her place? Automatic no. Meet at a Tims and talk about addiction recovery with every Grandma in the Northwest?

She shivered. A cold front was blowing in, and she was grateful for her thick wool tights and the fact that she’d picked a thicker blouse to go under her blazer. She pushed through the doors to building A, then smoothed her skirt and straightened her back, replacing her laptop bag strap over her shoulder before walking forward and pushing the button for the elevator.

She glanced around the lobby. Took in the calming, abstract art. This would be simple. She’d already presented in front of hundreds of doctors and medical professionals at three other medical centres in the past month. She’d prepared for this conversation meticulously. She had every detail about Reviact memorized, every potential question Jordan could throw at her thought through, and every answer polished to a sheen. After seeing the data, he wouldn’t be able to turn her away in good conscience.

The elevator dinged, and Rhonda took it to the third floor, then exited and followed the signs to Jordan’s door. She drew a deep breath and knocked. This was business. It was the mantra she’d repeated the whole drive over. She needed Jordan to take her seriously because, after last night, she'd already blurred the lines more than she'd intended. There couldn’t be any hint of impropriety—she wasn’t manipulating Jordan to get to Dr. Mallory, just presenting the facts.

Jordan was a contact. Just another hospital employee who could help get her product to the people who needed it. Her heart beat a little faster than it should, but she attributed that to the fact that she was about to enter the house of a man who’d seen her naked. More like heard her naked.

She groaned, then closed her eyes and forced another deep breath in.

Within seconds, Jordan answered the door, and Rhonda's pulse stuttered. He had changed out of his scrubs and was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. She didn’t know which was worse, but what did her in was that his hair was wet. Exactly like it was the first time. Had he done that on purpose? Her eyes traced the lines of his collarbone, barely visible above the collar of his shirt.

“Come in.” Jordan stepped back, and her stomach flipped. That was a normal thing to say, but hearing it out of his mouth . . . Ugh. It was like his voice was laced with ginseng or whatever other eastern medicinal herbs Tina had been talking about that boosted libido. She clearly didn’t need any of them.

Rhonda slipped off her shoes and set them next to the door, then followed Jordan down the hall and into a small living room. The whole place smelled like his body wash. It wasn’t cologne. It was too subtle. She found herself wondering if he was a bar soap or loofah guy. She could use his washroom and?—

"Can I get you anything? Water?" Jordan asked.

"Umm, sure. Water would be good." She opened her bag, pulled out her laptop.

The space was cozy, with a deep chocolate brown leather couch and a rustic coffee table. The walls were clean and minimalist with a few pieces of art and some hockey memorabilia. Rhonda set her laptop bag on the coffee table and took a seat on the couch, her pulse still thrumming from the sight of him standing there in his own space. It was how she’d felt when she’d gone on a behind-the-scenes tour at the Calgary Zoo as a middle schooler and first walked through the “Staff Only” door.

Jordan sat down on the couch next to her, and she slid a little on the cushion. He set the water down on a coaster in front of her, and Rhonda opened her laptop. She scooted to the edge of the couch, not looking up as she clicked through her files. "I know this isn't your first rodeo, so I'll skip the sales pitch and get straight to the important points." Might as well get into it.

Rhonda pulled up the first blue slide. "Reviact is a long-acting medication for addiction management. It's designed to reduce cravings by stabilizing neurotransmitter levels, specifically those linked to reward and dependency pathways in the brain."

She scrolled through the next few slides then paused to show tables and graphs as she launched into the clinical data. "In our third-party trials, we've seen a seventy-three percent success rate in reducing relapse rates over a six-month period. Patients have also reported a sixty percent improvement in adherence compared to standard treatments." Rhonda glanced at Jordan, who was watching her computer screen, his face unreadable.

She continued, outlining the patient benefits and potential for improving addiction treatment outcomes. Her words were measured, her tone calm, but inside she was tangled up like a fitted sheet in the dryer. He was giving her nothing. No smile. No “hmms” or other sounds whatsoever. Was he impressed? Skeptical? Bored?

Rhonda blew out a breath. "So, in summary, Reviact offers a more effective and sustainable solution for patients struggling with addiction. It's not a magic bullet, but it's a significant step forward." She clicked to the next slide, her finger hovering over the mouse. "Any questions so far?"

Jordan leaned closer, his knee brushing against hers, and Rhonda's breath hitched. She forced herself to look at the screen, but she couldn't ignore the way his hand slid along the back of the couch near her shoulder. The scent of his soap, fresh and clean, filled her senses.

"You mentioned patient adherence. How exactly does Reviact improve that compared to other treatments?" he asked, his voice reverberating through her.

Rhonda sat back and turned to face him, her brain stuttering over the words she could normally rattle off without a second thought. "Right, so, Reviact has a longer half-life, which means patients don't have to take it as frequently. That alone reduces the burden of daily medication adherence. Additionally, the stabilization of neurotransmitter levels helps with overall mood improvement and cognitive function, making it easier for patients to stick to their treatment plans."

Jordan nodded, his eyes flicking to hers. "And the side effects?"

Rhonda’s mouth suddenly felt like she’d taken double the recommended dose of cyclobenzaprine. She picked up her glass of water and took a sip. "In our trials, we've seen minimal side effects. Most patients experience some initial nausea or dizziness, but those symptoms typically subside within the first few weeks of treatment. The benefit-to-risk ratio is highly favourable."

The only sign that Jordan had heard her explanation was a slight tip of his head.

Rhonda clicked her laptop shut. "Cantra is offering rebates. To cover up to 50% of the cost for patients. It will be more expensive than they want. But that’s the best we can do.”

Jordan didn't answer at first, and the silence stretched between them like melted cheese. After an interminably long thirty seconds, Jordan pushed his hair off his forehead. "My sister has been in and out of rehab for years."

Rhonda blinked. Of all the things she’d imagined him saying, that wasn’t one of them. “Oh. I’m—that’s awful. I’m sorry.”

Again, silence. Rhonda’s pulse quickened as Jordan stared at the top of her closed laptop. She wanted to put an empty glass up to the side of his head and press her ear against it to get even a snippet of what was going on up there.

“She’s tried it all.” A muscle in his jaw flexed, and he dropped his arm back to the couch.

Rhonda’s skin prickled. Heat flared across her neck and into her cheeks. That was all it took. Four words and a deep sadness moving through his eyes, and Rhonda was suddenly blinking back tears.

What was wrong with her? Plenty of people shared personal things about their family or their own life after presentations like this one. Every drug she educated people on was meant to alleviate human suffering, which meant there were plenty of people struggling in the interim, waiting for new innovations.

But this was a sister.

"Can I use your washroom?" she croaked, jumping up from the coach and rounding the table before Jordan could look up and catch a glance at her red-rimmed eyes.

“Down the hall,” he said behind her, but she was already moving. She found it, first room on the left, and slipped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She leaned against the door, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

She walked to the sink and splashed water on her cheeks, hoping to shock herself back into emotional stability. Rhonda stared at her reflection in the mirror, watching the water drip from her chin.

Breathe .

Rhonda pulled her phone from her pocket and scrolled back in her texts. Beginning of September. The timestamp proved what she’d already been thinking. It had been six weeks since she sent a text to Cassie and hadn’t even received a read receipt.

Jordan knew things about his sister. Currently. They seemed to have a relationship. That was good. Just because she didn’t have a relationship with her sister didn’t mean nobody else could. She needed to pull herself together.

Rhonda took two more deep breaths, stuffing that wave of emotion back into the box labelled “Family and Childhood” where she’d kept it for years. Cassie had written her off along with their parents. It was her sister’s choice, and it wasn’t personal. It all had to do with him .

“Hey, you okay in there?” Jordan’s voice sounded from the hall.

Right. How long had she been standing there? She should’ve flushed the toilet or something, but doing it now would make him think she’d needed a long time on the toilet. So, it was either pretend she dropped the kids off at the pool or admit she had a momentary emotional breakdown because of . . . nothing.

She couldn’t decide which was worse.

Rhonda’s skin was already dry, thank you Alberta, so she straightened her shirt and shook out her curls. She was fine. Now, she only had to convince Jordan of that since he was already skeptical of her meeting Dr. Mallory. Could she blame her period? It was damn near time menstruation came in handy.

Rhonda stepped out into the hallway and paused. Jordan was leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. He looked up as she appeared, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Rhonda's heart pounded in her ears as she stood there, a different flashback screaming into her mind’s eye.

"I'm sorry about that," she whispered.

Jordan opened his mouth, but nothing came out. It was like they were both watching the same movie in real-time. Different main characters, but the same scene. The wrong hotel room. “I should probably get back . . .”

But standing in this hallway, Rhonda didn’t want to be the one to hesitate. She couldn’t give in to the slow ache building in her middle and step forward to run her hands over Jordan’s bare chest because?—

He moved so fast, Rhonda barely had time to inhale before his lips were on hers in a desperate, searching kiss. His hands grasped onto her like he was drowning and she was his life preserver. Her insides dropped out as she threaded her hands in his hair. Not damp anymore, but she didn’t care.

Her back hit the wall, and she gasped as his hips ground against hers. “I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you at the bar,” Jordan rasped. His hands were everywhere, kneading the curve of her waist, sliding under her shirt to splay against her bare skin.

“Yeah.” Rhonda sucked in a shaky breath, her body arching into him as his fingers fumbled over the clasp of her bra. “You look hot in scrubs.”

Jordan chuckled low in his throat.

Somehow, she’d successfully convinced herself that her memory was fantasy. That those nights with Jordan had been exaggerated in her head because of the raw excitement of it.

She was wrong.

His touch was just as intoxicating as she’d remembered. Rough and powerful. Hungry.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her pulse racing as his lips found her neck. She clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into his shirt as he clamped his hands under her thighs and lifted her to his hips, still running his tongue and teeth over her skin.

Somewhere alarm bells were going off in her head, but they were drowned out by the war drum of her heart and Jordan’s panting breaths.

Then they were moving. She clamped her legs around his hips as his hands pressed into her back and he peeled her off the wall. Jordan whisked her down the hall, hurried and clumsy, through the bedroom door.

They fell together to the bed, Jordan sliding on top of her. She pulled at his shirt, and he reached over his shoulder, tearing it over his head and tossing it on the floor. Rhonda sighed as her hands met skin, her head turning just enough to see his muscles flexing under his tattoos.

This was a bad idea. She tried to access the truth of it, but her head was vastly undersupplied with resources at that moment. Jordan pulled her shirt off, along with her already undone bra, and she shivered as the cool air hit her bare skin.

It was all rushes of breath, the rustle of clothing, and pops and releases as Jordan’s lips found new skin to press against. Rhonda clasped the shoulders she’d been thinking about since the urgent care. Well, off and on since the parking lot, if she was being honest. Jordan’s heart beat against her hip as he moved down her body in frenzied desperation, his hands venturing under the hem of her skirt, and Rhonda suddenly wondered why she ever wore pants.

He slid his body back up, wrapping himself around her and threading his legs with hers. How were they this physically compatible? They didn’t have to say a word, and everything felt right. Like perfect pacing in a great novel or a waiter at a restaurant knowing exactly when to fill your water glass. Effortlessly. Subconsciously.

Rhonda was so utterly present, the raw physicality was startling. Every thought in her head was silenced by the symphony exploding from her nerve endings, and the rest of the world faded into nothing. For the next twenty minutes, she existed fully in the space between Jordan’s humming skin, his racing heart, and his soft cotton sheets.

And then she was surfacing, her skin cooling, her heartbeat slowing. Her body buzzing with aftershocks, her blood thrumming in her veins. Her hands rested limply on Jordan’s lower back, her legs tingling and heavy. Jordan’s lips were still on her neck, his breath hot against her skin as his breathing evened.

The ceiling came into focus. The blinds over the window. The modern moulding. The matte paint on the walls. It was like a momentary death and rebirth.

Rhonda lay there beneath him, basking in the weight of him—the warmth of him. And then the reality of their situation finally diffused past the physical high.

They were going to have to move now. To look at each other and say something.

Jordan kissed her cheek, then pushed up and broke the silence first. “I’m going to go clean up.”

Rhonda nodded. Good. That was good. That would give her a moment to?—

TO WHAT?

Panic crept up her throat. She’d come over here to talk to him about Reviact and ended up naked in his bed? She rolled over and groaned as soon as Jordan had maneuvered off her body, entered the washroom, and shut the door behind him.

She wanted to slap herself. This was pure idiocy. She’d shown up for a professional meeting, and now the waters were muddied. Would Jordan introduce her to Dr. Mallory because he thought she was going to sleep with him again? Would he tell people on staff that she’d wanted to snag an audience with their clinical team so badly that she’d hopped into bed with him?

Beyond that, would the Snowballs get word of this? So far, she didn’t think any of them had heard anything, which meant Jordan either hadn’t told his team or his players were tight-lipped. Something she obviously hadn’t mastered yet.

Or—or—they hadn’t played each other yet.

Ugh. Maybe that was the only reason the Snowballs didn’t know? If they’d found out before, she could’ve claimed ignorance. Sean and the others still would’ve been pissed at Jordan, but she would’ve been innocent. Embarrassed but innocent. Now? Her actions were indefensible.

She clutched his pillow to her face, squeezing her eyes shut. Jordan was like a bag of Salt and Vinegar chips. Or a package of Cadbury Mini Eggs. You put one of those on the counter, and sure, she could have some self-control for a few days, maybe even a week, but eventually, she was going to rip open the bag and eat the entire thing during an episode of Bridgerton.

Her stomach twisted, and she untangled herself from the sheets, hunting for her clothes. She found her skirt, underwear, and tights on the opposite side of the bed and wriggled back into them, then threw on her bra and shirt. She searched through the twisted sheets and duvet for anything else she might’ve missed.

They were nice sheets. They smelled like him—the whole room smelled like him.

Rhonda jumped as the door to the washroom opened, standing at attention so fast her spine cracked.

Jordan stood in front of the door, completely nude. He took a step toward her, and Rhonda moved back an inch toward the door.

"Jordan, I . . . I don't know what happened. I mean, I know what happened, but I didn't think—I didn't come here with the intention to?—"

“No, I know.” His brow furrowed.

She pursed her lips, then did a final scan of the bed. “Okay. I’ll—” She pointed to the door and escaped to the hall.

Like a coward.

Rhonda gathered her things, measuring time in her head by how fast she thought Jordan could clothe himself. She figured she had about twenty seconds left by the time she swung her laptop bag over her shoulder and ran to the front door.

She didn’t hesitate. She swung it open and rushed out, striding down the hallway, her cheeks flushed and her hair a mess.

She reached the elevator and pressed the button, her breath coming in short gasps. After what felt like ten minutes but was probably one and a half, she pressed the button again, glancing down the hall and willing Jordan’s door to stay shut.

When the doors finally slid open with a ding, she took a step forward and nearly ran into a man exiting the elevator. Rhonda jumped back and looked up.

She froze, both of them staring at each other.

Darcy McClellan.

Her chest felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. Darcy was on the Snowballs. He'd taken a year off last season, but he was back on the roster and standing in front of her with his blond faux hawk.

His brow twitched. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

“Nothing.” She clutched her bag tighter. “Just a meeting.”

Darcy’s throat bobbed, and he stepped out of her way. “Mmm. Nice.”

Rhonda hurried into the elevator and gave a small wave, then dropped her eyes to the floor, praying the doors would close. Or that the elevator would plummet to the main floor and offer her a quick and painless death.

Because she was still holding her tights.