Chapter 10

Chapter

Ten

Jordan

Jordan skated out onto the rink, his breath fogging through his helmet. This arena had charm, he'd give it that. Old playoff banners hung from the rafters, but the cabinet in the entryway sat empty. He grinned to himself. The Rose Cup was safe and sound at their home rink, and he didn’t have any intentions of allowing it to rehome.

"I swear, the Zamboni here is older than my grandma," Greg muttered. None of the coaches were happy about being on this side of town. Even though their home rink was nothing to crow about, it felt good to talk a little bit of shit.

"I like a little character in my ice." Jordan grinned. He was in a good mood. Hell, he was in a great mood. He drew a deep breath of chilled ice rink air and surveyed their new home for the next month or so.

The Eastfield Arena wasn’t flashy, but it had ice that made you float. Hopefully that wouldn’t change after the renos.

Toby, a hall-of-famer now in his sixties, rubbed his hands together. “You think they all got the memo?”

Jordan smirked. “These kids actually check their text messages.”

Toby grunted, annoyed before their session even started. And that was why these guys were Jordan's people. Greg with his battered coffee mug that looked like it had seen the trenches, Toby, who always wore a toque even though he had a full head of hair, and Steve, who still donned pieces of hockey gear he’d worn in the eighties.

Their teams of kids were already warming up, skating in lazy loops and shooting pucks against the boards. Jordan glided over to his group, fifteen and sixteen-year-olds, all of them moving like derpy golden retrievers.

"Alright boys, line it up.”

There were a few groans but mostly grins. These kids were good, and they knew it. more than that, they were willing to skate until they puked to get better.

He ran them through a series of warm-ups, then arced behind the net as they skated into formation and took turns cutting, receiving, and shooting. "Nice power, Carter. Maybe aim for the net next time.”

Carter flipped him a mitt, and Jordan laughed. They were comfortable with him. That would be a problem if respect didn’t come with it, but with this group it mostly did.

He was antsy on his skates, so he hopped into the rotation and joined the group. Their energy spiked, and it brought him right back to when he was on the cusp of something huge. He’d gone from doing coaching just like this to playing with the Calgary Hitmen in the WHL. Thirty goals and fifty-six assists his rookie season. The scouts had been all over him. His second year, he upped the ante with forty goals, and the New York Islanders had taken him sixth overall in the NHL Entry Draft.

He remembered how it felt, standing in the draft room, hearing his name called. The rush of adrenaline, the slap of his dad's hand on his back. The promise of a career that was supposed to be filled with glory and accolades.

Sean was there that night—they'd been inseparable back then. Sean was drafted twenty-fourth overall by the Blizzard. They were both living the dream, and then . . .

Jordan shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts. It was still hard to believe how quickly everything had changed. One wrist injury and suddenly he was on the bench, his name not even on the list for Team Canada selections.

He played two regular-season games in the NHL. Two. And a single playoff game. All of them scoreless. After that, he'd bounced around the AHL and IHL, but his wrist never fully recovered. The doctors said he could play, but there was a high risk of permanent damage. At twenty-two, he made the call to walk away.

Twenty-two. He was a baby back then.

Ethan missed a shot and slammed his stick against the boards in frustration.

Jordan skated over. "Hey, it's just one shot. You'll get the next one."

Ethan nodded, still breathing hard as he joined the others to circle up for a passing drill. They had so much potential, so much time ahead of them. For some, maybe not as much time as they thought.

Jordan skated behind the net, watching them move. He loved his life now. He loved coaching these kids, seeing them improve week over week. He loved his job as a nurse, the adrenaline rush of the trauma wing.

But there would always be a part of him that wondered what might have been. What could've happened if his wrist hadn't given out on him. If he'd played more than two NHL games. If he'd been able to make good on all those promises.

He pushed the thoughts away. This was his life, and it was a damn good one. He just had to keep reminding himself of that.

It was easier than normal that morning, knowing exactly what thoughts had been running through Rhonda’s head. Or at least what she’d told her friends. He’d been given a lot of titles over the years, but Parking Lot Guy might be one of his favourites. More than that, the fact that she and her friends had a name for him meant she’d talked about him. A lot.

He chewed on that for a moment, the red flags starting to go up in his head. This was Allison and Sonya all over again. He tested well with strong women who wanted a bit of stress relief, but he wasn’t the guy they settled down with. Allison was a wounded bird, but she’d only wanted an escape from problems she wouldn’t deal with head-on. And Sonya. She said she didn’t want commitment, but what she meant was she didn’t want commitment with him.

Jordan was good at solving problems. He was good at giving people what they wanted. But he was shit at keeping his own emotions out of it. Every time he swore he wouldn’t fall deep he failed. After a couple years of therapy, he realized it hadn’t ever been about them.

Jordan blew his whistle and called out the next drill, then skated in to give specific feedback on their footwork. They skated hard until five minutes to the hour, then huddled up.

Ethan and Carter snickered about something, and Jordan called them out. “Care to share with the group?”

Ethan’s cheeks went redder than they already were. “No, Coach, I?—”

“Ethan thinks you got laid,” Carter blurted, and the rest of the kids responded appropriately.

Jordan didn’t miss a beat. “My typical Monday.” The boys laughed. “You all need to hit puberty first, then I can give you my tips for pulling snipers.” That got him a few smirks and eyerolls. “Good practice today. Hydrate. Get your calories in. You’ll need it for Wednesday.”

He sent them off to the showers, then worked with the other coaches to clear the ice.

“You have practice here tonight, eh?” Greg asked.

Jordan nodded as he scooped cones off the ice. “Unfortunately.”

“This arena is going to be a clown car all month.”

“With less laughs.”

Greg guffawed. They finished up and got off the ice so the Zamboni could clean it up, then walked upstairs to wait in the lobby for parents. Their kids were old enough not to need any hand holding, but it was a courtesy their parents appreciated.

The boys were tromping up the stairs when he saw a shove. Jace, one of the older kids with blond hair sticking out under his ball cap, had Ethan pinned to the railing.

"Hey!" Jordan shouted, but Jace leaned in, getting up into Ethan’s face. Ethan fought against his grip, but Jace had at least fifteen kilos on the kid.

Jordan yanked Jace back by his collar and put himself between the two of them. Jace spun, his eyes wild. Ethan, still breathing heavily, held his position against the rails, his fists clenched.

“You okay?” Jordan asked. Ethan sniffed and nodded, then stormed up the remaining stairs. Instead of heading toward the main entrance, he strode down the opposite hall. Probably taking a minute in the washroom.

"What's going on?" Greg asked.

Jordan shook his head. "Jace and Ethan."

Greg frowned. "Again?”

Jordan blew out a breath and walked back to stand next to the windows. Vehicles were arriving. This was the third time Jace and Ethan had gotten into it, and he figured it was probably time to loop in their parents.

He didn’t get it. Last year, they’d been thick as thieves. Now they seemed to annoy the hell out of each other. If they’d had a falling out, whatever, but they needed to show respect at practice.

Jordan flinched a little at that thought. He hadn’t always been willing to take that advice, so there was no judgement from him.

Ethan skirted past them and jogged out to a minivan. Jordan thought about following him until he saw Jace slumped on a couch in the corner.

He walked over. “You have a ride?”

“Mmhmm.” Jace pulled out a laptop from his bag.

“Looks like you’re settling in.”

Jace shrugged. “My dad has practice here. I have to wait till he’s done.”

Jordan’s jaw tensed. His dad. He thought back to who he’d seen picking up or dropping off Jace in the past. It had always been his mom, which was why he’d never made that connection. “Your dad plays for the Snowballs?”

Jace glanced up. “Yeah. You know him?”

Jordan nodded. “I’m going to tell him about what happened today. Between you and Ethan.”

“Coach—”

“I’m letting you know, not asking for your opinion.” Voices filled the entryway, and Jordan turned to see Snowballs players filtering in through the front doors. Curtis Reeder locked onto them and left the group. So. That was his dad. Jordan didn’t remember if they’d had a run in specifically, but with the Snowballs, there weren’t many altercation virgins left.

Curtis walked over and ruffled his son’s hair. “How was practice?”

“Dad.” Jace scowled and put his white boy fluff back into place. “It was good. This is one of my coaches.”

Curtis turned, appraising him. “Wheatfill.”

Jordan nodded. Curtis was an inch taller than him, but not as thick. It was difficult not to be a bit of an asshole given the circumstances. He cleared his throat and ditched his player hat for his coaching one. “Can I bend your ear for a sec?”

Curtis’s brow furrowed. He stepped away from Jace and followed Jordan over to the opposite wall.

“Jace has gotten into a couple of scuffles with another kid in our group. Ethan. They don’t want to talk about it, but I can’t have behaviour like that on the ice.”

Curtis blew out a breath. “Ironic.”

Jordan tensed. Coach, not player. “Our priority is the safety of these kids. He can’t be instigating?—”

“Instigating?” Curtis’s jaw tightened. "I thought they didn’t want to talk about it. How do you know he instigated?”

Jordan ground his teeth. “Jace seems to be the one who?—”

"I appreciate the heads-up, but I know my kid. He's not one to start things.” Curtis kept his voice low.

Jordan grunted. If he had a loonie for every parent that thought their kid wasn’t at fault, he’d have enough for the lunch combo at Tim’s. "Right. Well, if it happens again, both boys will be suspended for the week."

“Do we have a problem?” Sean walked up and stopped next to Curtis, his arms crossed over his chest.

Jordan wanted to tell him to walk his ass down to the locker room and leave the conversation to the men, but he didn’t. “Youth hockey. It has nothing to do with you.”

Curtis planted a hand on Sean’s shoulder, and they both turned back to the stairwell. Jordan walked back to his gear, irritation itching under his skin. His eyes flicked back to Jace, who was now engrossed in whatever was on his screen.

Jordan pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time. He still had a solid hour and a half until his Pucks Deep practice. It was a pain to twiddle his thumbs and kill time, but by the time he got home in rush hour traffic, he’d have to turn around and head back.

He swiped over to the messages between Rhonda and her friends. At least he had that to keep him company.

Jordan tapped Jace on the shoulder, then waited for him to take out his headphones. “I’m going to order food. You want anything?”