Draft Bust

DRAFT BUST DELAY OF GAME BOOK 3 HANNAH HENRY Draft Bust By Hannah Henry This book is an original work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Proofreading by Judy Zweifel Copyright © 2023 by Hannah Henry CONTENTS Content Notes: 1. Jordan 2. Oliver 3. Oliver 4. Jordan 5. Oliver 6. Jordan 7. Jordan 8. Oliver 9. Jordan 10. Oliver 11. Jordan 12. Oliver 13. Jordan 14. Oliver 15. Jordan 16. Oliver 17. Jordan 18. Oliver 19. Jordan 20. Oliver 21. Oliver 22. Jordan 23. Jordan 24. Oliver 25. Oliver 26. Jordan Two Summers Later Pre-Order book 4: Acknowledgments About the Author CONTENT NOTES: This book discusses hockey injuries and chronic pain. There are also discussions of homophobia, as well as explicit sexual content. CHAPTER 1 JORDAN Jordan Walsh thought he knew what he was getting himself into when he accepted a job offer to work on a secret project for Oliver Swan. As a former beat reporter for the Minnesota Northern Lights, Jordan frequently covered Minnesota’s biggest rivals, the Colorado Range, which usually meant covering Oliver, their star player. Jordan wasn’t a subject-matter expert on Oliver Sawn, but like most of the hockey world, Jordan had followed Oliver’s career since junior, when he got a special exception made for him to be drafted to the WHL a year early. Jordan watched Oliver’s disappointment the night he got drafted second overall to the Range. He had also been at the game against the Northern Lights when Oliver injured his hip in a preseason game two seasons ago. It wasn’t his first injury by a long shot, but it was the one that solidified him in the minds of many as being “injury prone.” Jordan couldn’t decide if injury prone was better or worse than the other thing people called Oliver. Draft bust. Through all of it, Jordan had always defended Oliver in his column, not shy to point out Oliver’s merits, his skill on the ice, that he was the youngest captain in Range history, and third youngest in the whole league. He figured the fact that he never jumped on the dog pile of criticism as Oliver barely played through the last season and a half was the reason Oliver chose him for this project. Jordan followed his maps app as it guided him through twisty streets, past suburbs, to a small gated community where Oliver’s giant house was perched on a hill. Oliver buzzed him in at the gate, and he guided his rented SUV up a long driveway. It was a sunny day, and though his drive from the airport had been covered in a fresh dusting of snow, Oliver’s driveway was clear. He pulled into the motor court and watched the front door of the house open. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to park, but Oliver emerged from the house to guide him air-traffic-style to the right. When he got out of the car, Oliver greeted him with a bit of a distant wave. Jordan hadn’t been expecting a hug, but a handshake maybe. “Hi, I’m Oliver,” he said, as though people like him had to introduce themselves to people like Jordan. “I think I might have already known that. I’m Jordan.” He stuck his hand out, and to his credit, Oliver took it. His hand was warm and uncalloused, and reminded Jordan immediately of how long it had been since Oliver had played hockey. Oliver was small for a hockey player, and the last time Jordan had been this close to him, Oliver had been in skates. Jordan didn’t feel big around very many men—especially working in hockey—but he felt big around Oliver. “Do you need help with your bags?” “I just have two,” Jordan said, and pulled them from the trunk of the car. Oliver led him across the motor court to the front door. The house looked from this perspective to be one story, but Jordan knew there were two additional levels stacked below it along the slope of the mountain. Oliver’s motor court was a paved space in front of the house. You had to drive through gates to enter, and there were garage doors on the right and the left. It looked like ten cars could comfortably fit in the space. It sounded fancy, but it was just a massive rich-person driveway. The exterior was a harsh gray stone that blended into the side of the mountain it was built on, and though it had a certain austerity to it, Jordan couldn’t help but be in awe. It was certainly nothing like his apartment in Minneapolis. The enormous front door looked heavy, but Oliver opened it with ease, which probably pointed more toward the door being expensive and having a really nice opening mechanism than to Oliver being especially strong. Jordan’s first impression was fancy hotel lobby, if a lobby happened at the top of a hotel and lead down, instead of the other way around. From the ceiling hung a large, red, organic-looking glass sculpture that drew Jordan’s eyes down the center of the stairwell to the bottom floor, where there was a fountain. Jordan was too far away from it to see clearly, but he had watched a YouTube video tour of the whole house from a few years ago when it was on the market, so he knew that you could time the fountain to a beat, like at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. “Should we find your room?” Oliver