Chapter 18

Chapter

Eighteen

Jordan

I have your ticket for next Monday night, the 27th. Six o’clock at the BMO Centre. Percheron Ballroom

Rhonda

Got it. Should I come pick up the ticket?

I’ll have it. Turns out the table is hospital staff only

Rhonda

So . . .

I have to be there

Rhonda

Don’t you have practice?

You know my practice schedule?

Rhonda

No, I just heard that your team was there. That you practice after the Snowballs because your rink is under renovation

Yeah. I had to rearrange some things

Rhonda

You didn’t need to do that . . .

Jordan shoved his phone into his pocket without reading the rest of that message. He wasn’t in the mood for her to tell him again how much his efforts were unwanted. Except when they weren’t. Except when they were exactly what she wanted, when they were on her timeline. Claire had said the exact same thing about Reviact, and he was sick to hell of it. Would it be so difficult to admit to needing help? To be grateful that someone cared enough to give it?

Yes. For them, it would be. He didn’t like comparing Rhonda to his sister, but they did seem to have that in common.

He stepped out of his truck, already yawning, and opened the back door to grab an energy drink. He was going to need caffeine to make it through coaching and then practice. All he wanted to do was get on the ice. To forget the stew of mixed emotions simmering in his gut and toss around a puck.

All day Sunday, he’d wondered if he should bail on the Founder’s Event next week. Not just because he’d be missing practice, but because of . . . everything. Ultimately, he couldn’t feel good about it. Not because he was doing it for Rhonda. After the other night, the worst thing he could do was see her again when he was trying to disentangle himself.

But somewhere along the line, he’d started to believe in Reviact. He wanted her to meet with Mallory. Claire had actually gone to her appointment and picked up her prescription. He hadn’t seen that kind of follow through in years. Add to that the fact that she hadn’t called yet, and the faintest glimmer of hope sparked in his chest.

He should’ve snuffed it out instantly. It hurt too much to keep hoping for something better and watching it fizzle out. But pretending he accepted her situation? That required a regular infusion of fooling himself.

That was the problem with love. He couldn’t flick it on or off. It was like herpes. Lying dormant no matter what treatment he used, ready to flair up and make him look like an idiot.

He crossed the snowy parking lot and pulled open the door to the rink. A wave of warm air washed over him as he pushed through the storm doors and wiped his boots on the mat. The familiar smell of the rink filled his nostrils—part rubber, part ice, part machine. He took a deep breath, letting it settle in his lungs. This was his escape. His sanctuary.

He waved at the staff and wound his way down the stairs to the benches and laced up his skates. The scrape of blades, the echo of pucks hitting the boards, the laughter and shouts of the kids warming up—it was a symphony he never got tired of hearing.

He skated out and scanned the rink, mentally taking note of each kid out there. His brow furrowed when he didn’t see Ethan. That kid was always there early. Jordan skated back to the bench and grabbed his phone from his coat pocket. No messages. He tapped out a quick text.

Hey. All good?

He waited a moment. If it took longer than thirty seconds for him to respond, he’d start calling hospitals. Phones had become these kids’ fifth appendage.

The three little dots blinked on the screen, then disappeared. Finally, a message popped up.

Ethan

Not feeling well.

Jordan stared at the words. Bullshit. Ethan had shown up in October when he hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours with the stomach flu. He blew out a breath and shoved his phone back in his pocket, then skated to the centre of the rink.

He clapped his hands and started calling out drills. The rest of the kids snapped into action, and Jordan skated over to where Greg was standing against the boards. "Think you can run both groups?" Greg looked up, giving him a questioning look. Jordan nodded toward the stairs. “Something’s going on with Ethan."

Greg's eyes widened, then he nodded. "Yeah, sure. Go."

Jordan turned on his skates and made a beeline for the gate. His blades cut a clean path, and he stepped off the ice. It wasn’t his job to babysit. But something wasn’t sitting right with him about the whole situation. There was that latent virus, flaring up again.

He'd never had a coach who gave a shit about his personal life. It was all about performance, stats, and wins. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe if someone had given a damn about players off the ice in his generation, he wouldn’t keep collecting players who were struggling to find themselves in their mid-thirties.

Jordan took off his skates, grabbed his coat, climbed the stairs, then pushed through the doors of the rink and crossed the parking lot. He hustled to his truck, his skates slung over his shoulder, and dialed Ethan’s mom. When she didn’t answer, he tapped out a quick text letting her know he was checking in on him. She responded immediately saying she wasn’t home, but he was more than welcome to stop by. Good. He didn’t want any weirdness where that was concerned.

He strapped on his seat belt and pulled out of the lot while looking up directions for Ethan's house. It wasn’t far. Jordan plugged the address into his maps app and followed the blue line. Ten minutes later, he turned into the neighbourhood and pulled up to the curb in front of their white bungalow. He put the truck in park and sat there a moment, trying to figure out what he was going to say. Maybe if he’d picked up chicken noodle soup or something, he would’ve had an excuse to show up out of the blue.

Jordan took a deep breath, then opened his truck door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He walked up the front steps and knocked on the front door. After a few moments, he fully expected to have to leave and drive back to the rink empty-handed, but then he heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open.

Ethan stood there, his eyes widening in surprise. "Coach? What are you doing here?"

Jordan looked him up and down. Totally normal. "Wanted to check in on you.” Jordan shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

"I told you, I'm not feeling well." Ethan stood there, his hand still on the doorknob.

"Yeah, you look like you're on your deathbed." Jordan raised an eyebrow.

Ethan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Look. I just . . . I needed a break, okay?"

Jordan nodded slowly, then motioned to the street. "You want to go grab a coffee or something? I'm freezing my ass off out here."

Ethan hesitated, then shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

“Text your mom. Make sure it’s okay.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “I’m seventeen.”

“Which means I could still go to jail for kidnapping.”

Ethan texted her, and Jordan stepped back as he slipped on his shoes and grabbed his coat. “She says it’s fine. But she’s pissed I missed practice if I feel good enough to go to coffee.”

“It’s medicinal.”

Ethan snorted. They walked to the truck in silence, then drove to the nearest Tim Hortons. The smell of fresh coffee and baked goods greeted them. Jordan ordered a large double-double since he’d left his energy drink at the rink, and Ethan got a maple macchiato. Jordan paid for both, along with a couple glazed old fashions.

“You kids with your boogie-ass dessert drinks.”

“Just because you suffered in the dark ages, doesn’t mean we have to.” Ethan grabbed a napkin and stir stick.

They found a corner table and sat down. Jordan wrapped his hands around his cup, letting the warmth seep into his skin. He took a sip, then looked up at Ethan. "So. You needed a break."

Ethan shifted in his seat. "Yup."

Jordan leaned back and crossed his arms. "From what?"

Ethan stared at his cup, his jaw clenching. "From everything. From school, from hockey, from life."

Jordan nodded. "I get that. Sometimes it feels like everything's piling up, and you need to step back and catch your breath."

Ethan looked up. "Yeah.”

Jordan took another sip of his coffee, then set the cup down. "You know, when I was your age, I had a lot of people telling me what to do. Coaches, teachers, my parents. But hockey was always my escape."

Something flickered across Ethan’s eyes. He nodded and took a bite of his donut.

Jordan’s ribs cinched as he realized what he had to say next. He didn’t like talking about the bridges he’d burned, but he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this kid if he didn’t give him something.

"When I was your age, I had a friend. Sean. We played hockey together every day and hung out every weekend. Travel teams. Tryouts. We helped each other through a lot of shit."

Ethan nodded, his eyes distant. "Must’ve been nice."

Jordan exhaled. He was going to have to come right out and say it. “What happened with you and Jace?”

Ethan's face hardened. "Jace isn't my friend."

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "Since when? You were buddies last year."

Ethan scoffed. "Yeah, well, that was before."

"Before what?"

Ethan gripped his cup, the muscles in his forearms tensing. Jordan didn't push. Just sat there, waiting for Ethan to decide if he wanted to share. Finally, the kid took a deep breath. "I don't want to talk about it."

Jordan nodded, taking another sip of coffee. "Sean and I moved out together. We were both entering the draft?—"

“NHL?”

Jordan leaned back in his chair. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

Ethan laughed. “No, I just—I didn’t know you played.”

“Because I barely did.”

Ethan's brows knit together. He was fully invested now. “But you got drafted?”

“Yep.”

“And what about your friend?”

Jordan blew out a breath. “Mmhmm. Later in the draft than me.”

Ethan grinned. “So that’s what this story is? You’re going to tell me how your friendship got all strained because you were a badass and your friend was jealous?”

Jordan looked straight at Ethan. "No. Around the same time, I slept with his girlfriend."

Ethan's jaw dropped. He stopped fidgeting with his cup.

Jordan paused, letting that piece of information sink in before continuing. "I messed it up. We’ve never talked since. Then I got injured, and our lives took different paths. Sometimes I wonder?—"

"I tried to kiss him." Ethan raked a hand through his hair, then dropped his eyes to the table, his mouth pressing into a hard line.

Jordan’s mouth hung open. He blinked. "Tried to kiss . . . Jace?"

Ethan nodded. "We were at a party. It was late, and we were playing cards in the basement." He shook his head. “I don't know, man. We were friends, you know? But then something changed—” He cut himself off and glanced around the restaurant. His pulse pumped fast and hard in his neck.

“Hey.” Jordan put out a hand and rested it on his arm. “I don’t care whether you’re gay or straight. You’re safe here, okay?”

The kid looked like a caged rabbit. Slowly, his shoulders started to sag. Ethan's eyes met his for a split second before darting away. "I don't know. I just—I started thinking about things. Things I hadn't thought about before. And then, one night, we were at a party, and . . ." He trailed off, his fingers resuming their nervous dance on the cup sleeve. "I didn't know I was . . . into guys or whatever until six months ago. It was just a mistake."

Jordan nodded, trying to understand. "So, Jace didn’t appreciate that."

Ethan nodded, his eyes fixed on the table. "Yeah. I thought he was into me, too. I was wrong. He freaked out."

Jordan leaned back, giving Ethan some space. "Has he told anyone else?”

Ethan shook his head. "I don’t think so. None of the other guys have said anything.”

Jordan read between the lines. They didn’t say anything, but he knew exactly what that looked like in a locker room. Showers. Jace was probably avoiding him. Making sure Ethan wasn’t checking him out while he changed. He’d seen it a thousand times. No words needed to be spoken for someone to feel like a pariah.

“Have you told your parents?” Jordan asked. He’d never asked Ethan about his religion, but he knew church was a thing for his family. Ethan only went to fifty-percent of his Sunday games.

Ethan shook his head, then he gave a wry smile. "My parents would be supportive. I just . . . I haven't figured it out yet."

Jordan nodded, his chest tightening. It was possible this kid was more mature than he was. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He didn't have any experience to draw from. Any advice to give.

"Well, Jace is a dick."

Ethan laughed out loud. “Yeah.”

Jordan chewed on his cheek, the image of Rhonda rushing out of his apartment suddenly playing on repeat. “Or he’s just scared.”

Ethan’s smile slipped a bit. “Yeah.”

“Probably doesn’t know how to handle this any more than you do.” Jordan’s hands started to sweat.

“Isn’t this the part where you tell me what to do?”

Jordan chuckled. “Weren’t you listening? You shouldn’t ever take advice from me.”

Ethan picked up his coffee and lowered his voice, mimicking Jordan in coach mode. “You should talk to your parents and have a heart to heart with Jace instead of skipping practice like a douchebag!”

“Nice.” Jordan picked up his coffee and stood. “Maybe you should give the speeches from now on.”

“Oh, yeah. I’d be a boss.” He stopped by the door. “Wait, who’s running practice?”

“Greg.”

Ethan’s eyes widened. “Jace is gonna be pissed.”

“I’ll tell him it was your fault.”

“Ass. Hole.”

Jordan held the door for him. “Better get well soon. Next time you’re on the ice, you’re doing extra suicides.”