My mouth tightened.
“That would have been amazing,” Rico went on. “Fucking a pop star like Jordyn Banks.”
I scowled at him. “Shut up.”
Rico’s head jerked back, and the vibe around the table turned heavy.
“Someone’s not happy about that,” Bomber observed.
I rolled my eyes. “Could we not talk about this.”
“It’s all over the Internet,” Boosh offered. “Pictures, even. One article said you left together. They said you were walking toward your place. You sure you didn’t take her home and bang her?”
“As if I’d tell you if I did.” I focused on my medium-rare New York steak. I’d read some of the online stories and comments about our date, and all the speculation about our “relationship” and what a cute couple we were. Ha. Then I’d had to stop reading that shit, because it just infuriated me even more.
“Ah. So it’s possible it did happen.”
The conversation was irritating me. Especially because I’d had such a good time. I’d really thought there was some serious chemistry between us and that she’d felt the same. I should have been telling these guys all about it, making them all hate me ’cause they ain’t me, because I’d had such a phenomenal time with Jordyn Banks. But the whole evening was tarnished now because I’d been an idiot to think things like that.
After dinner, I headed back to my hotel early. Yeah, I was a sad fuck. Not only was I still down about not scoring, frustrated with myself and pissed off because my wrist had acted up during practice, I was bummed about Jordyn’s rejection.
I turned on the TV in my room and threw myself onto the bed with the remote. I surfed through various channels, pausing at Selena Gomez singing. I pushed myself up higher, shoving pillows behind me. Sure enough, it was the Mistletoe Magic concert.
“Live from Madison Square Garden,” a voice said as they went to commercial. “Mistletoe Magic. Coming up next…Charli Marna and Jordyn Banks.”
I lifted my eyebrows, my mouth twisting. Perfect timing to torture myself watching her sing and dance. I probably should have changed the channel. But I didn’t.
As Charli Marna’s first number started, the camera panned the crowd, standing in the dark in MSG where I’d played hockey so many times. I watched her perform, then they went to a commercial again promising Jordyn would be next. I kept watching.
I let out a rough sigh when she came onstage, strutting in her red heels, wearing a red sequined bra top and a short skirt, her blond hair all tousled around her small face. She approached the mic stand and removed the microphone, walking across the stage as she started singing “Dance with Her Life.” One of her big hits. I didn’t know how she moved like that in those heels.
A close-up of her face had my heart pumping faster. She had on a lot more makeup than the night we’d gone out. She always had that dark-rimmed-eye look—no wait, that sounded like she resembled a raccoon or something. She didn’t, it was just a lot of shadow that made her eyes look kind of smoky. But for this show she had even more eye makeup on, the dark shadow plus some glitter and shiny red lips.
They showed the crowd again, lots of women, all singing along with her, obviously familiar with the words and into the music, many of them holding up phones taking pictures. Then back to Jordyn who stepped up on a raised part of the stage to watch a guitarist riff out a solo. “Woooo! Come on, New York!” she called out, then resumed singing, facing the audience again.
Was it my imagination or did her smile not look as wide as usual? Her eyes appeared different too, on another close-up…almost like she was afraid.
I sat forward, frowning as she sang. At one point it seemed like she paused to swallow or clear her throat. Then when she went to hit those super high notes that she was famous for…she didn’t. Her voice broke and cracked. Her eyes widened, and her hand went to her throat. The musicians kept playing. She twirled and did a few dance moves, then she held the mic up to her mouth, lifted her chin…and when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. She froze.
On a stage in Madison Square Garden in front of thousands of people live and probably millions of people watching on TV…she froze.
My gut cramped up so hard it hurt. I scooted my ass to the edge of the bed and watched, my heart galloping, my palms sweating.
Jordyn turned to the musicians and they stopped playing. She whirled back to the audience and tried to say something but all that came out was a rasp. She set her fingertips to her lips, eyes shiny with tears, then she mouthed what looked like I’m sorry and ran off the stage.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle and then the host of the show came back out and announced another commercial break and the artists who’d be singing next, trying to act like nothing had happened.
Holy fuck. What had just happened? Was she okay?
I was confused and worried. I jumped to my feet. I had no clue what to do. I wanted to go to her, but that was impossible. I could call her. We had each other’s numbers, as we’d been texting before our date. I could call her.
I scrubbed both hands over my face as I paced across the hotel room to the window. I could try to call her. She probably wasn’t thinking about answering her phone right now. Wow, could she even do that, since she’d seemed to have trouble talking?
What the hell could have happened? She’d seemed fine on Saturday.
I had to do something, so I texted her. Maybe she’d see it at some point, although I couldn’t even imagine what she was going through right now. I pictured her backstage, surrounded by people, possibly crying. My chest felt like it was being squeezed by giant Hulk hands. I tapped in a message and sent it.
I knew I wasn’t going to hear back from her. Not tonight. But maybe she’d see it later, or in the morning…
I slept like shit that night, which wasn’t good because we had a game the next day. I checked my phone three times during the night. I checked it before I headed out to go to the arena with the team for our morning skate. I checked after the morning skate. Nothing.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Brick asked me when we were back at the hotel. Guys were all going up to their rooms for naps.
“Didn’t sleep well.” I rubbed my eyes. “I’m gonna take a nap.”
“You never nap.” He narrowed his eyes at me.
“Well, today I need one.” I clapped a hand on his shoulder, and we stepped into the hotel elevator.
I didn’t want to talk about what I’d seen on TV last night. It was pathetic enough that Jordyn hadn’t liked me enough to want to see me again, never mind that I sat alone in my hotel room watching her on TV.
Chapter 9
Jordyn
LOS ANGELES
With my arms wrapped around my middle, I sat hunched on the chair in the doctor’s office. My mom sat next to me, her hand on my back. My stomach churned.
It had been two weeks since that humiliating and terrifying night in New York. I’d flown home to L.A. with my manager, Aaron, who’d made some calls and got me in to see Dr. Vukovic right away. Dr. Vukovic had arranged to have a camera shoved down my throat—oh my God, it had been awful, I’d gagged and gagged despite my throat being numbed—then had told me I had a polyp on my vocal cord that had hemorrhaged.
I’d sat there in tears while he explained what this meant and what we could do about it. I’d never been so scared in my life, thinking that my singing career was over just when it was getting started. Singing was everything to me.
“This isn’t unique,” Dr. Vukovic told me. “There’s an epidemic of vocal cord injuries in the performing arts. I’ve done hundreds of these surgeries, probably to people you know. Some have been public about it, some haven’t.”
“Why did this happen?” I asked in a low voice. He’d already told me not to whisper. “What did I do wrong?”