12. Sabrina

Chapter 12

Sabrina

We're going to the bar. You joining us?

The text from Laws made my chest tight. I wanted to hang out with my teammates. I really did.

But I was just not feeling it tonight.

Going to call it an early night. See you at breakfast .

Then I lay back on the hotel bed, still fully dressed, and just stared at the ceiling. I needed to get out of this funk. Ever since that confrontation with Lila in the locker room, I'd been off my game. Quite literally off it today—I hadn't taken that many penalty minutes in one game since my youth days. Here I was thinking I needed to play my butt off so everyone could see that I deserved to be there, and what did I do? Give Nashville three power play opportunities.

My team had managed to jailbreak me from one of them, but the other two—well, I'd just been lucky that Nashville's power play was mediocre at best. If we'd been playing against Calgary or Seattle, it would've been a massacre even with our top-notch penalty kill.

Our top-notch penalty kill, which included Lila Hamilton, who'd gotten a well-deserved primary assist on that jailbreak goal.

I closed my eyes and sighed. Was it too soon to request a trade out of Pittsburgh? I liked the city and I liked most of my team, but I wasn't so sure I could keep playing on a roster with someone who openly thought I shouldn't be there. I was so worried that the rest of the team might think the same thing, and it was driving me up a wall.

This morning, when I'd arrived for our morning skate, I'd caught myself looking from one teammate to the next, wondering who was smiling to my face while sneering at my back. By the time I'd hit the ice, I'd been angry. So, so angry. By the time the puck had dropped for this afternoon's game, I'd been too angry to play well. Too unfocused. Too undisciplined. And it had nearly cost my team. At least I'd managed a goal in the first period; a violent slapshot of a goal that had left me feeling raw and angry instead of victorious because that was all I felt today—raw and angry.

So which is worse? Playing well and letting them all think I'm just here because of my dad? Or falling apart and giving them a reason to say I never belonged here in the first place?

I covered my face with both hands and groaned into the stillness. How much of this was in my head and how much of it was real? Couldn't I just, like, play hockey and enjoy the sport I loved? Did it have to be so fraught and full of suspicious people who thought I'd been handed a spot at the level they'd had to bust their asses to reach?

How much longer was my love of hockey going to keep me going before I gave up and did something else? Because right now, I wasn't loving hockey. If I was honest with myself, the only things that were really keeping me going were spite and stubbornness. I couldn't give up because I couldn't let my detractors—least of all my own father—be right. I needed to stay here—visible, playing professional hockey with that C on my chest—because fuck everyone who said I didn't belong here.

That had carried me through a lot of funks from my youth days all the way up through major juniors, and it was doing a lot of heavy lifting right now. But how long was it going to be enough? How long before it was okay to say I was done fighting and—

My phone screamed to life in my pocket, and I swore loud enough that whoever was next door probably heard me. Again when the iPhone's screen confirmed what the ringtone had already told me:

Dad.

Ugh. Really? I did not have it in me to deal with him tonight. I just didn't.

But I also didn't have it in me to have passive-aggressive voicemails festering on my phone, so… fine.

I put the phone to my ear and rested my free hand over my eyes. "Hi, Dad."

"Oh good, you're still awake."

"It's only…" What time was it? "It's not that late."

"Yes, well," he said, sounding just slightly patronizing, "I know what it's like, playing a game and traveling on the same day."

I rolled my eyes beneath my hand. "Just part of the sport."

"Mmhmm. It's probably not nearly as demanding for you, though, which is why I figured you'd still be up."

It took all I had not to push out a frustrated breath. I'd walked right into that, hadn't I? Should've seen it coming from a mile away. Sort of like I should've known Cady Williams had been trying to draw a penalty from me earlier, and that I shouldn't have taken her goddamned bait, and—

"Well, I'm up." I kept my voice as neutral as I could. "How are things?"

"Things are fine." He sounded dismissive, which meant he hadn't called to talk about "things." He didn't keep me hanging about why he had called, either: "Sabrina, how long are you going to embarrass yourself out there?"

"Embarrass myself?" I dropped my arm to the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "What do you mean? It was one bad night." The words, "You had them, too" stuck in my throat.

Dad scoffed. "Any night spent playing in this joke of a league is a bad night."

I rolled my eyes again, then rubbed them with my thumb and forefinger. "I'm committed for at least two years. So, even if I wanted to quit, which I don't…"

I didn't hear what Dad said next. I was vaguely aware of the disapproval and irritation coming down the line, but I was mostly focused on my own words.

"Even if I wanted to quit, which I don't…"

I didn't want to quit.

Did I?

No, I was pretty sure I didn't. But I couldn't lie—right now, just the thought of putting on my gear and hitting the ice again made me want to bury my head under the pillows and sleep for a month. I hated myself for the way I'd played today. I hated how I'd felt around my teammates. I hated how one conversation with one teammate—one who'd always thought I was shit on her shoe—had thrown off my concentration, my love of the game, my—

"Sabrina!" my dad snapped. "Are you listening to me?"

I jumped. "Hmm? What?" I paused. "I think my phone cut out for a second. The reception here isn't that great."

He laughed haughtily. "That league is putting you girls up in luxury hotels, aren't they?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. This was the same hotel the men's league used, but I wasn't in the mood to argue with him about that. Or about anything, but whatever. "What were you saying before my phone went wonky?"

Dad gave an impatient huff. "There are a million other things you could be doing with your time and your family's good name. Why don't you start an organization like your sister-in-law? She's doing a ton of good things for people."

I literally bit my tongue. He was forever telling me to follow in my sister-in-law's footsteps, since she—unlike my mother and me—was the epitome of the flawless hockey wife. Imani was the model-perfect face beside my brother, and she ran a non-profit that helped underprivileged children. I adored her, and she did amazing things for a lot of people, but—as Dad was forever reminding me—I wasn't her.

"This is what I want to do, Dad," I said flatly, and my stomach curdled because I didn't know how honest I was being in that moment. "I want to play hockey, and I'm good at it."

The harsh laugh on the other end made my heart sink deeper. I was struggling hard enough to hold on to my love of the sport and my desire to play. It was a temporary funk, I hoped—I wasn't one to let people like Lila Hamilton get under my skin—but it still sucked. Listening to my dad shit all over what I was doing really, really didn't help.

Before he could say anything, I said, "Oh, I just got a text from the coaches. Team meeting. I need to go."

He chuckled again, but at least he didn't try to stop me from going to the "meeting." He might crap on my dreams and degrade my league at every possible opportunity, but even he wouldn't cause me to get disciplined. Good to know the man had some consideration where my sport was concerned. Probably because of how it would reflect on him if his daughter was not only playing women's hockey, she was irresponsible and unreliable. Not acceptable for a McAvoy.

"All right, kiddo. But think about what I told you, will you? This whole league—it's a waste of your time and my good name."

I hated how little energy I could muster to argue with him. I hated the lump in my throat that I couldn't quite force down.

"I'll talk to you later, Dad."

"Love you, Sabrina."

"Love you, too."

Then I ended the call and let the phone fall onto the mattress beside me. Tears stung, and I tried to hold them back, but I didn't succeed.

Spite and stubbornness had carried me through a lot, but they were MIA right now. I was just tired. I was hurt. My own father wanted me to stop playing because it embarrassed him to have his name associated with women's hockey. At least one of my teammates—one whose dad loved and supported her to the moon and back—thought I was here through nepotism and couldn't stand the sight of me. Nights like this, it was hard to stay stubborn. It was hard to feel that spite that had pulled me through so many times before.

Nights like this, I wanted to ask the team to release me from my contract so I could go live a private life somewhere. Maybe play on a beer league now and then just to scratch that itch. Do something where I could be Sabrina McAvoy instead of Doran McAvoy's daughter. Maybe even do something Doran McAvoy thought was worth doing.

Most of the time, I didn't care what he thought of me playing hockey. I was going to do it because fuck him.

But nights like this…

God, was it too much to ask for my dad to be happy that I was doing what I loved? That I was doing something I was good at it?

I can't believe everyone thinks you're the reason I have this career.

How much better would I be if you hadn't tried to keep me down?