Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

Jordan

Jordan’s head was spinning as he geared up in the locker room. He had the whole day off, which was terrible. He hadn’t been able to get to sleep Thursday night after Rhonda left, and after tossing and turning all night, he had a day of laundry and grocery shopping. Neither of which produced an eighth of the serotonin needed to compete with what had happened the evening before.

His head was filled with Rhonda. The scent of her on his sheets. The image of her in his apartment, in his hallway—his bed—seared into his brain like a brand.

He sifted through each moment, trying to diagnose Rhonda hurrying out like a patient at the hospital. Something he’d said about his sister had struck a chord. She’d been emotional, and it was the first time he'd seen that side of her. The first time he’d seen her raw and unguarded. That look in her eyes haunted him, and the curiosity over what had been behind it gnawed at his insides.

What had happened? One moment they’d been standing in the hall, and the next? He didn’t know who moved first. Since they’d pressed against her side of the wall, he guessed it was probably him.

But that look. Sadness. Desire. It was the same one she’d given him in his hotel room that first night. Like she was trapped, begging him to reach out and pull her free. It hijacked all his rational thought.

It wasn’t that different from the looks he’d been given his whole life, though, was it? He grunted as he tied his skates. Hell, the end result was the same. Women looked at him like that, then got what they wanted, and then they left. They always left.

Jordan stood. The arena felt sharp and intrusive as he taped his stick. He should've been used to the fluorescent lights and the cold air permeating the locker room, but tonight, everything seemed brighter, louder, more intense. Chubs and Cam were halfway through gearing up while Steele and Nate were jawing.

"It’s starting to look like pubic hair." Nate's voice echoed in the enclosed space.

Steele stroked his beard. "You’re just jealous.”

"Damn right I am," Nate shot back. "I've got patchy stubble, and you've got a Chia Pet. It's not fair."

Jordan finished his tape job, smoothing out the rough edges with the flat of his thumb. He looked up just in time to see Chubs yank up his hockey pants. "I told you, man, it’s all about the oil. You want a glorious beard, you’ve got to use Squalene to hydrate."

Cam snorted. "Squalene? Is that what you’re calling it now?"

The guys groaned, and Jordan whistled. It was their thirty-second warning to sort their shit and get into a huddle. He grabbed his stick and waited in the open space between the showers and the sinks.

It didn’t take long for everyone to circle up. Jordan wasn’t in the mood for a peppy speech, but then again, that wasn’t really their style.

“The Cherry Pickers.” That was all he needed to say to get a chorus of head nods and grunts. “Tough team this year.” That wasn’t an understatement. In 2023 they’d upset Zambone It in the semis, and word was they picked up another winger with handles.

“Let’s breathe.” Jordan dropped a hand on Steele’s shoulder and watched the gesture move around the circle like a wave. When they were all connected, he dropped his head and inhaled through his nose.

Other teams might need to get jacked before a game. Lock in, get laser-focused, aggressive. Pucks Deep was not that team. Each of his players was already wound too tight to reach their full potential on the ice, and thanks to a dickhead comment from Nate three years ago, he’d forced them all to meditate before the game. Now it was a tradition bordering on superstition. Especially after they’d won the cup two out of the last three years.

They exhaled together, filling the locker room with white noise, then inhaled deeply a second time.

Bronze skin. Dark curls.

Jordan blinked, his shoulders tensing. The opposite of what should be happening on his exhale. He forced his lungs to refill and pushed the images out. Along with the sound of Rhonda’s breath in his ear. Her fingertips pressing into his back?—

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, and Steele gave him a look.

Exhale.

Three repetitions. No more, no less.

“Pitter patter, let’s get at ‘er,” Nate quipped after the last exhale, and Jordan snorted. If there wasn’t a Letterkenny quote at some point in the locker room, it wouldn’t be a proper pregame.

They lumbered as a team down the hall and made their way to the home team bench. Fans started cheering when they pushed out onto the ice. The rink was a modest one, with seating for maybe a couple thousand at best. The usual crowd was there—friends, family, and a handful of youth players from the area.

He took a few warm-up laps then joined his teammates for some passing drills. As he’d hoped, dropping into the game cleared his head of anything other than his skates and stick on the ice. Adrenaline coursed through him, and by the time he crouched at the face-off, he felt like the pressure in his chest might split his ribcage.

The moment the puck dropped, he snapped forward, his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. Jordan charged like a bat out of hell, his blades punishing the ice as he pushed himself harder. Faster.

Steele barreled up the right side, and with a flick of his stick, Jordan sent the puck hurtling over. Steele caught it just before number eighteen—a brute with shoulders like a barn door—decided to try his luck with Jordan. He braced for the hit against the boards, then jostled the dude, and took off.

A pass came his way, and he scooped the puck, cradling it briefly before slashing it forward toward the net. The goalie locked onto the puck, dropping low into his pads. In a split-second decision, Jordan veered right, aiming for the corner of the net just as he felt the solid smack against his stick. The puck spun high, arching up, and a slap of rubber on leather echoed as the goalie deflected it high.

Damn, close.

Jordan huffed, already tracking the puck as it spun down. A defender snagged it and took off past the blue line.

The game was fast and physical, just how he liked it. Since their two new guys weren’t starting until January, they all got plenty of ice time—too much sometimes—but it allowed them to get into good flow.

Jordan slammed into a defender, sending him sprawling, then took the puck and passed it to Wyatt. They worked their way up the ice until the crowd erupted in boos, and the referee signalled a penalty. Jordan glided to see Chubs skating toward the penalty box, his hands thrown up in frustration.

Chubs let out a string of curses, echoing in the arena. "That was a clean hit!"

The referee pointed to a spot on the ice. "Tripping, number twenty-two."

Chubs' eyes widened in disbelief. "He fell on his ass! Tripped over his own dumb ankles!”

The referee shook his head and motioned for Chubs to get in the box. Jordan skated over, dropping a hand on Chubs' shoulder. "Cook it."

Chubs grumbled but nodded, stepping into the penalty box. Jordan turned and skated back to the face-off circle. They were in the neutral zone, which meant Cam was going to attack the middle. Jordan kept his eyes trained on the ice so he didn’t tip the Cherry Pickers off.

He could already see their strategy. They were pulling pucks back and trying to spread his team out. They only had to survive the power play and then disrupt them. Make them uncomfortable, or they weren’t going to end with a W.

“Angles, boys,” Jordan called out.

They barely scraped by without giving up a goal, mostly due to Matty, their goalie, somehow spotting a puck going backdoor and diving for the save. When Chubs exited the penalty box, they were able to recover and stop playing on their heels.

Steele scored late in the first off a pass from Tobes, then Matty missed a puck in the second, which meant they were tied going into third period. After battling it out for eighteen minutes, Cam won a scramble, exploding along the boards toward the net. He kicked the puck up to Steele. He barely had time to flick it to Jordan to shoot it blind at the net. The crowd erupted as it barely rolled in past the post.

“Helluva pass, bud,” he bumped mitts with Steele, who grinned back, cocky as ever.

Back in the tunnel, the team was buzzing. Chubs was still yapping about his penalty while Steele replayed his assist like it was worthy of a Gordie Howe nod. Jordan tugged off his helmet as they reached the locker room, shaking out his damp hair.

The locker room buzzed with victory-induced swagger. Jordan dropped onto the bench, tugging at his laces.

“Boys, you see those beauties in the first two periods? Had their breakouts looking like a herd of blind cattle. Couldn’t transition for shit,” Chubs crowed, slapping Steele on the back.

Steele tossed his gloves into his bag. “Yeah, ‘til the third, when they started lobbing pucks behind us. We were playing fetch.”

Jordan nodded. “They started dumping in and grinding us down low, and we got caught puck-watching.”

Matty grabbed his towel and headed to the shower. “You boys done analyzing yet, or do you want to go back out and play the third again?”

Steele flipped him off as Jordan peeled off his gear, his muscles starting to cool. He stripped off his jersey then his pads, then sat down and pulled his phone from the locker.

There were a couple messages from work, but the credit card notification caught his attention first. He tapped on it, and the hotel total popped up on his screen. There must have been a few extras from the total, but he didn’t care.

He pictured Claire sitting alone in that hotel room, ordering room service. Jordan's chest tightened. This bill meant she’d checked out, but where had she gone next? Had she found another hotel? Crashed with a friend? He hated that he didn't know.

He thought about the Reviact information Rhonda had shown him. The results she'd shared were impressive, and he'd gone down the rabbit hole after she left. Everything he'd read lined up with what she'd told him. The drug reduced cravings, helped with withdrawal symptoms, and had a high success rate in keeping people clean.

Jordan laid his equipment on the bench, grabbed his towel, then stalked to the showers. He wanted to believe it was that simple. That he could just hand his sister a pill and everything would be solved. But after watching her for ten years, he knew better than that. Addiction was a beast. It dug in deep and didn't let go without a fight.

He hung his towel on the hook and cranked the shower handle, the tile cold against his feet. As the hot water hit his skin, Jordan let out a long breath and dropped his head under the spray.

What would it take to get Reviact approved at Rocky Ridge? He knew convincing the hospital board would be a gauntlet. And he certainly couldn’t be the one to push for it.

Dr. Mallory still looked at him as a liability after what happened with Claire. He'd been the one to give her access to the cabinets at the hospital, albeit unknowingly. He should have questioned why she was suddenly interested in visiting him at work, but was it so terrible that he wanted to believe she could’ve been there for him?

She'd been struggling, and he'd thought he was helping, but all he'd done was give her the keys to the kingdom. When bottles of oxycodone were unaccounted for and Jordan’s card was linked, he’d taken the blame. Even after Claire was caught and admitted everything, his relationship with Dr. Mallory had been torched.

He’d been naive, and it was his responsibility to keep hospital resources safe and the people around him accountable. He was still working on clawing his way out of that hole.

Jordan scrubbed himself down, then turned off the water and towelled off. He couldn't afford to ask for any favours from Dr. Mallory now. Possibly in another five years, but even that wasn’t looking promising.

Before he could finish drying, Cam called his name. Jordan walked out of the shower area, towel around his waist. Cam was sitting on the bench, holding up his phone. "You see this?"

Jordan frowned and walked over. Cam handed him the phone, and he read the text from their rink's manager.

"Due to unexpected emergency renovations, our rink will be closed for the next month. All practices and games, including youth programs, will be relocated to the Ice Centre . . ."

Jordan's stomach dropped as he scanned the rest of the message directing him to the attachment for changes to some practice times. He re-read the name and location of their new home.

The Ice Centre. In the Northwest.

The Snowballs’ home rink.

Cam’s expression mirrored Jordan’s. "Looks like we're about to get a lot more familiar with our competition."