10. Sabrina

Chapter 10

Sabrina

"What the actual fuck?" I huffed as I shoved my water bottle under the faucet to fill it up. "I'm just working out, minding my own damn business, and she has to…" I flailed my other hand. " Ugh. "

I mean, yes, I had asked her what the hell her problem was, but still. What the hell.

Zoe watched me over the island, her arms folded loosely across her Bearcats T-shirt. "That's really weird. She's been kind of a bitch to you ever since you both came to Pittsburgh, though, hasn't she?"

"She has." I shut off the faucet and capped my water bottle. "And she's taken little swipes about nepotism and whatever, but I figured that was just low-hanging fruit for her to be catty over. Kind of wondered what her actual problem was. I guess now I know." I rolled my eyes. "Same old story, isn't it? Every goddamned time a teammate is prickly toward me…" I just sighed and headed into the living room.

"Same shit, different team," Zoe muttered as she followed me.

"Seriously." I flopped onto the couch and pulled my legs up under me. "I know people think that about me. I'm not stupid, you know? I know what people say. But is it too much to ask for my teammates to take me at face value? Like, even if I did come up the way they all think, I can still play hockey, you know?"

"You can," my sister acknowledged, easing onto the other end of the couch. "And at least from where I'm sitting, the rest of your team gets that. It's just Hamilton who can't seem to get it through her head that even one of Dad's kids wouldn't be playing at this level without some actual skill."

"I know, right?" Sighing, I sat back and ran a hand through my hair. "I'm just so damn tired of it. All I want is to play hockey."

"And to be respected for playing hockey," Zoe supplied.

The words thumped against my chest. "Is that really too much to ask?"

"It shouldn't be. You're one of the best out there. Even if it was true that Dad had you working under the best coaches in the world from the time you could walk, you still had to put in the work." She twisted toward me, resting her elbow on the back of the couch and her head against her loose fist. "How many other generational talents out there have kids who aren't that great at hockey?"

"A lot," I grumbled before taking a swig of water.

"Right. I mean, look at Cary Olson's boys."

I hated that the reason I could instantly recall how "badly" those three had taken to hockey was that our father never shut up about it. Cary had been Dad's linemate for ten years, and he'd retired about six years before Dad did. They'd been magic together—two of the best two-hundred foot players in the men's league—but most people had no idea that they couldn't stand each other off the ice. Dad's ego pissed off Cary, and Dad never forgave Cary for defending our mom one night after Dad made a comment about her. No one but them and their teammates knew what exactly the comment had been, only that it had been in Mom's defense and Dad had blackened Cary's eye for it. Cary and his boys had also helped Mom and us kids move out of the house when she'd finally divorced Dad.

Dad couldn't bitch about Cary supporting Mom without looking like an asshole, and he knew it, but he happily grabbed every opportunity to rip on his linemate's sons' failure to become hockey stars. They hadn't even been "failures," really. Anton had been drafted in the second round by Los Angeles, traded two seasons later, and was now having a respectable career in Seattle. Greg had been undrafted, but signed with Boston, and though he only played about half a dozen games at the major league level, he'd led Boston's minor league affiliate to three championships in a row. Evan made it into major juniors and did all right, but ultimately decided not to pursue a pro career.

By any hockey parent's standards, all three of Cary's sons had done just fine. To hear my father tell it, though, they were abject failures. Even Anton was a disappointment despite being firmly situated in the men's league. Compared to my father and brother, they were mediocre and forgettable.

With a sigh, I pressed my water bottle against my throbbing forehead. "Guess it's a good thing Cary didn't have any daughters who decided to play hockey."

"Oh my God," Zoe groaned. "Dad would be insufferable about that."

"He would." Lowering the bottle, I looked at my sister. "I'm never going to change Dad's mind. I know I'm not. But I think… I mean, that's why it frustrates me so much when people act like he handed me a hockey career. It's the exact opposite."

"I get that. Everyone thinks you had it all handed to you from Dad, and no one will ever believe that you had to work twice as hard because of Dad."

I closed my eyes and pushed out a breath. "Exactly. And it's exhausting. Especially when someone comes along and reminds me. Like, for a little while, I almost forgot how everyone looks at me. I avoid reading articles or listening to commentators, and I just try not to think about it when reporters bring him up. So it kind of seemed like I was just playing hockey. As me. Not as Doran McAvoy's kid or Ty Caufield's ex-wife."

"Until your teammate threw it in your face," Zoe muttered.

I nodded and turned to her again. "The worst part is it makes me want to just walk away from it all."

My sister's eyes turned huge. "What? But you worked so hard to get to—"

"I know. I know." I gestured for her to calm down. "I'm not going to quit. I'm not giving this up. I just…" I let my shoulders drop as I slouched back against the couch. "It takes the fun right out of it, you know? Knowing I'm out there busting my ass, but people are absolutely sure the only reason I can skate that fast is because I've got a tailwind from Dad."

"Yeah, that makes sense." Zoe sighed. "I don't know how you play through it, honestly. I just really hope you don't give it up because one of your teammates is a bitch."

"If it was just one teammate, it probably wouldn't bother me as much. But all I can think is that she's the only one who's willing to say it out loud."

"Have any of your other teammates treated you badly?"

I considered it, then sheepishly shook my head. "No. And Lila's always hated me. I guess now I'm just worried who's being nice to my face while they secretly wish I'd leave so there'd be a spot for someone who's earned it."

"You did earn your spot," Zoe said.

"I know that. But do they?"

She looked like she wanted to argue, but then she deflated. "Ugh. Yeah, I guess it's hard to figure out who's buying into the rumors and who sees how you play right in front of their damn faces."

"Exactly," I whispered, and I felt even worse now. They had to recognize that my dad's name and influence could only carry me so far, right? I still had to be able to skate, protect the puck, score goals—that came from my head, hands, and legs, not the name across my back.

But Lila had to see those things too, and still, after all these years of seeing me play and playing together, she thought I'd had it all handed to me. Which meant that my other teammates—the ones who were less confrontational and could be sweet to my face—might very well think the same thing, too.

To my sister, I said, "I don't know what to do going forward. I don't know how to play through that." I laughed bitterly and added, "Not that I don't have years of practice."

Zoe scowled. "Honestly? If I were you?" She shrugged. "I'd probably just go out there and play for myself. Fuck the haters. Fuck the reporters. Fuck your teammates who don't think you deserve to be there."

"Kind of hard to do on a team," I said dryly.

"Maybe? But at some point, when you're racking up points and playing like everyone knows you can, they're going to have to admit it's you, not Dad."

"That hasn't worked yet."

"No, but at least then you don't have to care what anyone thinks."

I pursed my lips. On the surface, she had a point. And the ability to stop caring what other people thought would definitely make my life easier. If I could just ignore the comments and criticism, focus on the game, and play the level of hockey I knew I could, then I'd feel a hell of a lot better.

But given how much I still held out hope that my dad would change his tune about me and my hockey…

I wasn't optimistic about shutting off how much I cared what anyone else thought.