I hated her getting in that car alone. I hated what she’d just said. I almost felt like puking. “You’re welcome.”
She started to get into the car, then turned, rose up on her toes, and kissed me. Fast. Brief. Hot.
Then she slid into the car, pulled the door shut, and drove away.
Fuck.
* * *
—
We flew to Ottawa Monday ahead of our Tuesday game. I went out for dinner with the team to a nice steakhouse, and of course they had to bring up my date with Jordyn.
“So? How did it go?” Brick grinned. “Did she sing for you?”
“No.”
“Where did you take her?” Rico asked. “I hope you didn’t take her bowling or something stupid like that.”
My eyebrows knit as I gave him a hard glare. “As a matter of fact, we did go bowling.”
Rico guffawed. “Oh shit. Sorry.”
“Did she bowl?” Bomber asked. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I lifted my chin. “And she had fun.”
“Huh. Cool. So are you going to see her again?”
One corner of my mouth pushed up. “Nah. It was just a onetime thing. A PR thing for her. Her fans loved it.” It was hard actually spitting the words out because my teeth were clenched so hard.
Brick eyed me with a notch between his eyebrows. “You didn’t ask her out again?”
I sighed and looked at my plate. “I did. She turned me down.”
“Well, you took her bowling, for Chrissake.” Bomber shook his head. “What’d you expect?”
“I thought she was having fun. She was having fun.” I shrugged. “We’re both busy people though, and she lives in L.A., which makes it kind of hard, so it’s probably for the best.” I was trying to convince myself of this, so I didn’t feel like such a big loser.
Everyone else accepted that, but Brick pursed his lips.
“I guess that means you didn’t get any action,” Rico said. “Damn.”
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 chec
ked 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?”
“It’s usually a case of overuse. You’re not doing anything wrong. Have you been working a lot lately?”
I could have told him about recording the album and the tour and the concert and…but my throat hurt and I was afraid to talk too much. So I nodded.
He’d told me to rest for a couple of weeks with no talking. No talking! I’d had my phone glued to my hand so I could text everybody, even when they were in the same room as me. It was crazy. Now my throat hurt less, and I was back in Dr. Vukovic’s office. I’d also gone to another doctor to get a second opinion, which had entailed another camera shoved down my throat, and his opinion had been the same. Our Internet research had convinced me that Dr. Vukovic was the best. So here I was.
“Singing is a tough physical profession,” he said. “Your vocal cords are a pair of thin, reed-like strips located inside the larynx, or voice box. When we aren’t talking, the cords stay apart so we can breathe. When we speak or sing, air is pushed up from the lungs and the cords come together, the air making them vibrate, which creates sound.”
I knew this from my voice training.
“The higher the pitch, the greater the vibration,” he continued.
I was a soprano. I had a four-octave-and-one-note vocal range and could sing in the whistle register, which was the highest register of the human voice.
“When you hit those high notes, your cords are smacking together a thousand times a second. All that smacking together can create tiny contusions, and over time polyps or nodules can form on the cords, which is what has happened to you.”
I sucked on my trembling bottom lip, trying to be brave about it all.
“Singing takes a physical toll.” He shook his head. “Like a professional athlete who uses his body. Like a baseball player and his shoulder. A football player and his knee. A tennis player and her elbow.” He grinned.
I didn’t smile. Of course he mentioned pro athletes and I immediately thought of Chase.
I’d thought about Chase a lot off and on, although I’d been pretty preoccupied with my vocal cords. I’d felt so crappy after our date, when he’d said he wanted to see me again and I’d turned him down. I knew I’d done the right thing, but it didn’t feel right. It felt shitty. Because I really, really liked him. I really did want to see him again. But how could I?
I’d let that dilemma run around in my head on my flight to New York, during rehearsals, sound checks, and then the concert, but it had all been blown away by my utter mortification onstage that night and then anxiety about what was happening. Those first couple of days after the concert were a blur. My mom had flown to L.A., Aaron had taken charge, and Malik had been there for me, because I’d been a mess.
“What happens now?” I asked in a hushed tone.
“The surgery is minimally invasive. You’ll only need a local anesthetic. We’ve gotten really good at this.” Dr. Vukovic looked excited at the prospect, practically rubbing his hands together. “We insert a laryngoscope into your mouth, which pulses a laser. It shrinks blood vessels but doesn’t scar the cords.”
“What about Julie Andrews?” Everyone knew about her failed vocal cord surgery and the end of her singing career.
He waved a hand. “Things have improved a great deal since then.”
“It’s microsurgery. That means you have to be very careful. Very accurate.” I fixed him with a stare.
“True. The margin for error in these kinds of surgeries is measured in fractions of a millimeter.”
My eyes popped open wide. That did not make me feel any better.
Mom rubbed my back. “The doctor knows what he’s doing, Jordyn. He’s very experienced.”
I bowed my head. What if something went wrong? This was supposed to fix me, but what if it didn’t work? What if he accidentally damaged my vocal cords even more? What if I could never sing again?
My life would be over.
Okay, even I knew that was melodramatic, but I couldn’t help but think it. I was having a hard time breathing, my chest was so tight. I inhaled long and slow, and let the air out just as slowly. “Okay. When can we do it?”
“My assistant will schedule you. We should be able to do it before Christmas.”
That was good. Sort of. The sooner the better, I guessed, although I definitely wasn’t looking forward to surgery.
“What about the recovery time?” Mom asked.
“After the procedure, no talking for three weeks.”
I rolled my eyes. It was a pain in the ass communicating via text or notes, but I could do it.
“Restricted voice use for three to six months,” he continued.
I sat up straighter. “What? Six months?”
He nodded. “No singing.”
I gazed at him in dismay. I was supposed to start recording my next album in a couple of weeks!
Pressure built behind my eyes but I blinked back tears. I hated it, but it didn’t seem like I had much choice. My throat hurt. I couldn’t sing, and even if I could, even if things improved after resting, I’d be doing more damage to my vocal cords. I had to be smart and patient and hope that my fans wouldn’t forget about me if I had to take six months off and delay my next album. “Okay,” I said, head bowed. “Let’s do it.”
CHICAGO
JANUARY
More snow.
I liked the snow, especially from here inside my condo, with a favorite playlist pouring music from my speakers, thick socks on my feet and a cozy hoodie over my leggings. However, after a week of doing nothing but stare out the window at the snow, I was going stir crazy. I had cabin fever like you wouldn’t believe. I was going to lose my effing mind.
I was really, really trying not to spend every minute agonizing over whether I’d ever truly be able to sing again. There’d been a few times I’d broken down and let the tears flow, to be honest. But I couldn’t let that take over my life. I had to stay pos
itive.
I stood at the living room window on the tenth floor of the North Lake Shore building that held my Chicago home. There was no reason I couldn’t go out. I’d made it through the three week no-talking period, which had been over Christmas.
So Christmas had turned out different than I’d expected this year. Mom and Dad had still come to Los Angeles, except it had been to look after me following my surgery. All those invitations to Christmas parties had to be turned down.
The surgery hadn’t been that bad—I’d been a tad woozy from the local anesthetic and the anti-anxiety medication they’d given me (which I’d definitely needed because I was fuh-reaking out on the way to the clinic, imagining the worst). Someone had to drive me home, so it was good Mom and Dad were there. Painkillers had helped with the sore throat. Then it was just a matter of resting, not talking at all, and letting my throat heal up.
We’d exchanged gifts Christmas morning. Mom had made a small turkey and all the expected side dishes, taking over my huge but rarely used kitchen. She’d had to make a few extra things for me because I could only eat soft food. When I’d gotten bored, I’d donned sunglasses and a hat and we’d gone to a movie.
Mom had suggested coming back to Chicago with them so they could continue to look after me. I didn’t really need looking after, but going home to Chicago appealed, and also it was good to have them close by when I was feeling down and sorry for myself.
I left Aaron and the rest of my team—my assistant, Natosha; my PR guy, Bryson; my booking agent, Martin—to deal with the mess. The people at RXM had not been pleased that we had to postpone recording the album. Aaron smoothed things over with the A&R people, and Martin dealt with all the other cancellations that had to be made. My schedule was planned out a year ahead, and this really threw a wrench into things, affecting not just me, but my musicians, who’d all counted on recording and performing, and countless other people.
One good thing about being back in Chicago was connecting with my best friend Anjali, who still lived here. It had been heartbreaking leaving her when I was sixteen, but thanks to social media and various visits we’d kept in touch. Music had brought us together, but where I’d gone on to be a performer, she taught music at an expensive private school. And yet despite our different lives, we still felt the same connection we’d had when we’d met at age ten.
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