Page 37 of Offside Attraction

He’d seen all of it. The smiling weird, the hook up accusations,Parking Lot Guy!?!?Rhonda let out a groan and buried her face in the pillows.

Chapter

Ten

Jordan

Jordan skated outonto 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.

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