Page 50 of Offside Attraction

Jordan smiled to himself and walked back to the nurses' station to grab his coat.

He waved goodbye to the night shift and strode to the exit. The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, the antiseptic scent of the hospital replaced by the crisp bite of winter air. The wind was being an absolute asshole.

Jordan pulled up his collar as he descended the steps, his boots disturbing the barely collecting snow. He hoped traffic wasn’t backed up because of the weather. He only had an hour to get ready and book it out to Chestermere.

He crossed the parking lot, weaving through the cars until he reached his truck. It groaned to life, and he cranked the defrost, hoping to clear the iced-over windshield enough to see his way back to the apartment.

The drive home wasn’t too bad. He was able to maneuver around most of the Vancouver transplants who didn’t know how to drive in Alberta. He parked his truck, then jogged up the steps to his place, already pulling out his keys.

Once inside, Jordan stripped out of his scrubs and tossed them into the laundry. He headed straight for his bedroom, grabbed his hockey bag, and started pulling out his gear. He was already in his base layer when he remembered he hadn't texted Rhonda. He tugged on his shirt and reached for his phone on the nightstand.

He'd thought about her more than he cared to admit over the past two days. Every time he looked at his bed, he imagined her back in it. The string of texts with her friends hadn’t helped. Now anytime his phone buzzed, his blood rushed straight south.

That was a problem, considering Rhonda hadn’t ever texted back. She was pissed. Probably. But he wasn’t going to text her with news of his brilliant strategy to get her in front of Mallory just for her to give it a thumbs up.

Which meant he was going to have to call her. He swiped to her contact and hesitated, then moved his thumb to the call button. He pressed down and lifted the phone to his ear.

This was stupid.She probably wouldn’t answer. His hockey bag sat open on the floor, his pads spilling out onto the carpet.

The line rang once.

This was a mistake. He could still?—

“Hello?”

His mouth went dry. "Hey." Jordan cleared his throat, his mind scrambling for the reason he'd called. Rhonda was silent on the other end, but his mind and mouth refused to connect.

“Jordan, I’m driving, so?—”

“I got you an audience with Dr. Mallory,” he said in a rush.

"Oh. Good." Rhonda’s voice was clipped.

Jordan frowned. That was not the reaction he'd been expecting. He'd anticipated at least a little gratitude. Maybe some gushing. Or best case, a “Thank you, Jordan, you're amazing,”

He scoffed. “Okay.”

“What?”

Jordan's jaw tightened. He didn't want to be petty, but he'd gone out of his way to make that connection for her. It cost him cheesecake money. “Nothing.” He drew a breath, trying to keep his tone level. "Dr. Mallory has a table at the Founders Event on Monday. I got a ticket for you."

The line was silent for a beat. "At the dinner?"

“Yeah.” So she’d heard of it. “I pulled a few strings.”

Rhonda was again silent on the other end, and Jordan's frustration bubbled up. She had what she wanted and now didn’t have any use for him. He’d seen it coming this time, at least. “You’re welcome,” he snapped.

“What?”

“I thought what you meant to say was ‘Thank you, Jordan, for going out of your way to do me this favour.’ So I’m saying ‘You’re welcome.’”

“Jordan—”

“No, it’s fine. I get it. I’ll?—”

“Jordan, can you shut the hell up?”

He bristled, then paused as his brain registered information he wasn’t consciously tuning in to. Her voice was shrill. Her breathing was heavy.

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