Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

Jordan

Jordan threw his hockey bag into the back of his truck, then cut across the parking lot to the sidewalk.

“Coming out with us tonight?” Cam nudged him.

Jordan nodded. “It’s been a while.” He’d taken so many night shifts lately, his social life was suffering.

He briefly wondered if any of the Snowballs players would be inside the pub, but their practice ended two hours earlier. If they were still chugging brewskis after that long on a Monday night, they had more problems than running into Pucks Deep.

He grinned to himself as they walked in out of the cold. He may be a terrible person. He shouldn't have responded to the texts, but it wasn't him that started it. By the messages that were coming through, he knew that Rhonda wasn't telling her friends what had happened between them.

He didn't enjoy seeing them hypothesize about who she'd slept with. More concerning was that sinking feeling in his gut whenever he thought about her being with someone else. He didn't get that feeling. Ever.

That was when he told himself to delete the chat, block their numbers, and never interact with Rhonda or her friends again. He wasn't the kind of guy that girls wanted to be exclusive with, and clearly, Rhonda was no exception.

He also wasn't the kind of guy to get his feelings hurt anymore, and he wasn’t going to let this situation change that.

Jordan walked across the parking lot and kept his hand on his phone. Every time he felt it buzz, his heart jolted. He was probably a tool, and Rhonda would most definitely hate him, but that text chain was just too good. He and his siblings had played pranks on each other all through high school. Then his hockey friends had taken their place in college. It had been a while since he participated in a good one, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

Anne—he’d gotten her name from context—and anonymous friend number two were sure that Rhonda was at a dinner with doctors and medical staff that night, which meant any second now, she was going to see at least fifty text messages on her phone. His heart raced, and his hands were clammy. As they walked inside the pub and found the other guys at a table near the back, he ordered a drink and sat down.

"That wasn't so bad." Cam reached across the table to take a handful of nachos.

"What, the rink? Or watching the Snowballs leave the locker room?" Chubbs asked. "I kind of wished we had signs. We could give them rankings. Like Miss America as they walk down the hall."

Cam snickered, and Nate snorted. "I don't think they were too thrilled with us being there."

"They can't complain," Jordan grunted. "They didn't have to change their practice time. We’re the ones who have to be sweating until ten o'clock at night."

He'd been watching the hockey boards to see if there would be any chirping about the rink closure but, so far, Sean had stayed quiet.

Jordan's phone buzzed on the table, and he glanced down. It wasn't Rhonda.

Anne

Just tell us how you met Rhonda. She won’t care. She tells us everything

Jordan smirked. This text chain was proof of that fallacy. He’d at least told them his pronouns, but everything else had been banter. With Rhonda still MIA, they were getting desperate for facts.

Friend #2

Give us a ballpark. Are you from her college days? Earlier?

Later

Friend #2

Oh, damn. Okay. So . . . her twenties later or more recent?

I never ask a woman’s age.

He could do this all night.

Anne

Are you still in Calgary?

Depends on what you mean by Calgary.

Friend #2

Ugh. You’re exactly the kind of guy Rhonda would go for

Smart? Funny?

Anne

A cheeky bastard.

Thank you?

Anne

But why does she still have your number? She never keeps numbers. That means you have to be someone she knows from work.

Friend #2

Or the team

Anne

Or family

Ew

Friend #2

IS IT THE TEAM?

That was hitting a little too close to home.

“You okay there?” Cam asked, taking a drink of his beer.

Jordan set his phone face down on the table. “Yeah. Just a work thing.”

Cam nodded. “Your work must be a helluva lot more fun than mine judging by the grin on your face.”

Jordan cleared his throat. “Yeah. Nurses are funny.”

Steele scoffed. “Nurses aren’t funny.” He launched into a story about getting a rectal exam for a reason he wouldn’t specify. “I prepared ass jokes. She didn’t laugh at a single one.”

“User error.” Jordan grinned, and Steele flipped him off. He reached for a buffalo wing just as their server dropped off a plate piled high with loaded nachos.

As soon as she left, Nate shook his head. “I told you. Too much cheese.”

Steele shook his head. “You’re batshit crazy. Cheese is the best part.”

“Not when it’s that fake crap.”

“It’s not fake. It’s melted.” Steele pulled out a chip bathed in orange.

Nate pointed at the plate. “I don’t see any strings. Do you see strings? That’s how you know it’s not real cheese.”

Jordan rolled his eyes and reached for the pitcher of beer in the centre of the table. “You guys catch the Avs last night?”

Nate nodded. “Yeah, that was rough. Blew it in the third period.”

Steele shook his head. “Gantt’s gotta step up.”

Chubs waved him off. “He can’t do it all. The defence was a pile of steaming ass.”

“And where was Trembley?” Jordan took a drink from his glass.

“What, if you’re getting paid ten and a half mil, you’re expected to show up?”

Nate grunted and swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Did you hear about the new kid?”

Jordan shook his head. He didn’t want to admit how little attention he’d been paying to hockey news lately.

Chubs grinned. “This eighteen-year-old phenom out of Moose Jaw. He’s been tearing it up in the juniors.”

Nate shrugged. “He’s got some attitude problems, though.”

“Who doesn’t at eighteen?” Chubs chuckled.

“Hell, who doesn’t at thirty-four?” Steele fist-bumped Cam.

Cam nodded. “True. But from what I’ve heard, he’s been in a bit of trouble. Fights, skipping practices, that sort of thing.”

Chubs grinned. “Hey, if the kid’s got skills, they’ll overlook a lot.”

Nate took a swig of his beer. “Yeah, but at what point does the baggage outweigh the talent?”

And just like that, Jordan was back in his head. He was thirty-six, and it felt like all he had was baggage.

Cam nodded. "True, but you gotta admit, it's fun to watch these young guns come up and shake things up."

Steele grinned. "Especially when they piss off the old guard. Did you see that clip of him mouthing off to his coach?"

Jordan worked to keep up. How had he missed all of this?

Chubs laughed. "The kid's got balls, I'll give him that."

Jordan raised his glass. "Here's to the next generation of assholes." A worthy contribution to the conversation. He drank, then picked up his phone and rose from his chair, citing a needed washroom break. Once he was out of view of the booth, he stopped in the corner between the washrooms and the bar.

Friend #2

I think you’re holding out on us

Anne

I kind of don’t want him to tell us. I want more clues, so I can feel like I figured it out

Friend #2

What’s your favourite colour?

Anne

Ooh, what’s your sign?

Just as he was about to respond, he saw it. A thumbs-up emoji from Rhonda.

Jordan frowned, staring at his phone. That was it? Rhonda didn't respond to the group text, didn't berate them for being scumbags, nothing.

Just a thumbs-up.

The feeling of self-loathing hit him like a sack of bricks. He’d done this more times than he could count. Following a woman like a kicked puppy. Waiting for some kind of sign. A whisper of interest.

In college, he thought he was the shit. After his injury, he sank to the opposite end of the spectrum. In both cases his actions were identical. He’d spent his nights out at bars and his days recovering from hangovers.

Jordy was a good time. No commitment. No strings.

The pathetic thing was? At his core, he was a problem solver. A giver. But the women in his life never protected that. They would take until he was empty, then scrape him out with a spoon.

So now he had hockey. He had work. He took care of people who would actually let him help. And yet he was still trying to break through walls that weren’t ready to come down.

Rhonda had tensed the first time he’d brought her coffee. She’d been practically itching out of her skin when he’d given her an IV, though to be fair, that could’ve been the Fenugreek.

He wasn’t going to wait around with his tongue lolling out this time.

Just as he lifted his thumb to click off the screen, a text came through from Claire.

Claire

I don’t want to go to rehab.

Jordan’s stomach sank. Seemed like the universe was punctuating his inner monologue.

Where are you?

Claire

Safe

But you don’t want rehab?

Claire

It doesn’t work

Jordan hissed air through his teeth and pulled up his browser. He typed in his search and started scrolling through the results, then clicked on Cantra’s official link, scanning the page for information about where his sister could get Reviact in the city.

Not many options, but he found a private clinic. Licensed to prescribe new treatments for mental health and addiction. It was out of the way, but that didn’t matter. He copied the address and phone number, then pasted it into his text thread with Claire.

This place stocks Reviact. I’ve seen the results. They’re compelling.

Claire

I’ll phone them tomorrow

Jordan’s thumbs hovered over the keys. He wouldn’t be a golden retriever for other women, but this was his sister.

I’ll cover anything your benefits don’t.

Claire

You don’t have to do that

I want to.

He stared at the screen for another thirty seconds, and when she didn’t text back, Jordan dropped his phone into his pocket and stalked to the washroom.