Page 9 of Cross Check

“That is revolting.” My cheeks heat, and I sip my wine to deflect the compliments. “And not information I need to hear.”

I figured there would be a spotlight on me when I took the job in Denver despite spending time coaching at the collegiate, ECHL, and AHL levels. Being a “first,” regardless of the position, is bound to attract attention. And as a woman in a male-dominated space? It’s brought on a goddamn media circus.

Podcasts, interviews, magazine spreads. Being featured in content for the team’s social media page and fielding technique questions from young players. My professional life has stretched into my personal life, and in the moments of exhaustion when I have a thousand things to do while a million people watch and hope I fail, I take a second to breathe. I remind myself that I’ve dreamed of this life, that I want to make a difference in the sport for future generations of girls who might be watching my journey and want to emulate it.

It makes me grind even harder, especially when I know it will piss a man off.

“There may not be any fan groups if the team’s recent slump keeps going.” I roll my lips together. Work always finds its way into our conversations, but I care about other parts of their lives too. “We’ll see what happens. It’s only February. Fingers crossed we get our shit together before April.”

“You leave for a road trip tomorrow, right?” Sienna asks.

“Yup. A four-game swing that takes us to DC, Detroit, Orlando, then Raleigh. Should be fun. All those teams will put up a fight,” I say.

“Maverick Miller is hot,” Lainey chimes in, and I down another generous sip of alcohol.

Hearing Miller’s name is a reminder I’ll be in the same arena as Grant Everett in two days. He might follow me on social media, but I haven’t heard a peep out of him since our last matchup three months ago. No comments, no messages. Not so much as a like on any of the posts I’ve shared.

The silence is good.

Great, really, because I don’t know where a conversation with him would lead.

He’s intriguing and gives off the air of not like the other guys. It’s not a bad thing, but rather really fucking confusing.

I’ve been around enough men in this sport to have most of them figured out: the hint of arrogance, the whisper of pretty privilege given to them by outsiders who romanticize the athlete lifestyle. Bad boys who know how not to get caught when they do something wrong. Hard workers, but treading on the cusp of easily distracted and power-hungry. Like every relationship is transactional; a game within a game to figure out how they can better themselves to their ultimate goal of being a world champion.

Grant, annoyingly, fits none of those molds. Nothing about him screams hockey player. If I ran into him on the street, I wouldn’t even believe he was a professional athlete. He’s an enigma who will be in my periphery for the next ten to twelve years, and I don’t know if I like it.

“Amelia? Are you okay?” Sienna asks.

Her question helps me blink out of the fog I’ve found myself in. It’s a haze made up of messy hair, a sharp jawline and a lazy smile, and I touch the pulse point on the inside of my wrist to make sure my heart isn’t beating too fast.

“Sorry. Slipped into coach mode.” I shift on the leather seat. “If you think a hockey player is hot, Lainey, you should be forced to stand next to them when they’re drenched in sweat after sixty grueling minutes of physical activity. And don’t get me started on their broken teeth. It’s disturbing. Horror movie stuff.”

“Football doesn’t sound so bad now, does it?” Sienna laughs. “Way fewer dental injuries, and they know how to use their mouths for more than puck-stops.”

“Hang on. You’ve hooked up with NFL players? Like, ones on your team?” I ask.

“Hell no. One should never fuck where they work. But retired players? Free agents?” Her smirk is coy. “Whole different ball game.”

“How about coaches and members of the training staff?” Lainey drums her nails on the table. “I love a man who can be authoritative in the bedroom.”

“I can’t believe we haven’t had this conversation before!” I gape at them. “Athletes are on my avoid list. Too much ego. Too particular with their routines and superstitions. The guy I dated in college told me I needed to wear the same underwear every time the men’s team played because they won their first game of the season when I had a very specific lace set on, and he deemed it lucky. As if my blue thong controlled where the puck went.”

“The woman who has to have the same drink before every game is calling athletes too particular? Ironic.”

“I do not!”

“Large coffee with cream and two sugars,” Sienna and Lainey say in unison.

“I’m particular about some things.” I roll my eyes. “But hockey players are on a different level.”

“You were and still are a hockey player, babe.” Sienna grins. “That’s never going to change.”

“Anyway. It doesn’t matter about superstitions or our player and coach preferences. I’m not interested in any kind of relationship right now. I have my career, which is going damn well, and that’s enough to make me happy. Bring on the road trip that will get us a step closer to another Stanley Cup championship.”

“To badass women.” Lainey grabs her beer and lifts it in the air. Sienna and I mimic her movements. “Who don’t care about a man’s opinion.”

I knock my drink against theirs and smile.