15. Lila

Chapter 15

Lila

As we geared up for our next home game, Sabrina was edgy and nervous in ways I hadn't seen her before a game. Not even a critical one at the Olympics.

The way she kept chewing her lip? How twitchy she was, especially when the press came in? It made the hair on my neck stand up. Something was off.

I finished putting on my gear, then clomped over to her stall. "Hey. You okay?"

For a second, she looked like she was going to insist she was fine. Only for a second, though.

Deflating a little, she said, "Marci caught wind that my dad bought out an entire section in the lower bowl. Aside from the seats held by season ticket holders, anyway, so… most of the section."

I arched an eyebrow. "And that's a… bad thing?" Given that her dad was the one involved—yeah, that checked out. Even if I couldn't put the pieces together about how it was bad, something must've been sending up a red flag for Sabrina.

"On paper, it doesn't sound like a bad thing." She turned to me, her eyes full of worry. "But I know my dad. Somehow…" She shook her head.

"Shit," I whispered. "What do you think he's going to do?"

"No idea. I just hope it's something I can ignore while I'm playing."

"I hope so, too."

Unfortunately, it didn't look too promising as we skated out for warmups. One glace around the arena, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out which section Doran McAvoy had bought out.

During warmups, the crowd was usually pretty thin anyway; a lot of people came to the glass, but others were still filtering in after getting beers and snacks. Most people would come to their seats in the ten or fifteen minutes ahead of the anthem.

But there were always people scattered throughout the arena. Always at least a few dozen trickling into each section throughout warmups.

Section 114, however, was almost deserted.

There were three couples in their seats, but the rest of the section was empty. Sections 113 and 115 both had twenty or thirty people so far with more wandering in, but 114 had… six.

And of course, that section was at the end of the arena where we warmed up. And the end we'd be attacking twice. Right in Sabrina's line of sight when she needed to concentrate the most.

I skated up to her. "It's 114, isn't it?"

She nodded grimly. "Yeah. And I have a feeling there isn't going to be anyone else in those seats."

Sure enough, when we returned for the anthems, only those six fans were in those seats. The arena was packed apart from that undeniably empty section.

Christ. What was his deal? What was he trying to do? Just mess with her head? Start rumors? Give people a reason to snap a photo and spread it all over the internet saying "Look at this abysmal crowd at a WHPL game"? Because that last thing—people had definitely done that. They'd take photos between periods when a lot of fans left to get beer or use the restroom, or when the gates had just opened and people had barely started coming into the arena. Then they'd create this narrative that no one came to our games, so it was a waste of time.

Of course, the arenas would just post the ticket sales and crowd size for each game, and fans posted their own photos of the dense crowds, but it was still enough for haters to talk shit.

As for all of us on the ice, we were conditioned to pay as little attention as possible to the crowd. They could be distracting, so we had to ignore them as much as we could. That was hard sometimes; it was why the Wave was so damned annoying, because that much movement beyond that glass was bound to catch our eyes.

For the most part, aside from the Wave, we could ignore just about anything beyond the glass. The big gap was as conspicuous as a defender's missing tooth, but it wasn't moving unlike the damned Wave, and it wasn't like anyone else knew who'd bought out that section.

Only Sabrina knew.

I wondered if that was the point. From the way Sabrina was clearly trying to not to look anywhere near section 114… it was working.

God, please don't let it mess with her concentration.

At least we couldn't hear the sports commentators, because they were guaranteed to be speculating about it. Fans probably wondered what the deal was. Our teammates undoubtedly noticed the gap in the crowd.

But Sabrina knew exactly why it was empty.

For her, it wasn't just an unusual visual or something to catch her eye at an inopportune moment. It was the most blatant way Doran McAvoy could tell her how little he cared about what she did. He might buy out an entire section of seats, but could he bother to show up? Or have anyone else show up and use those tickets? Absolutely the fuck not.

I skated by her as we set up for a faceoff. "You good?"

Her jaw was tight, but she nodded sharply. "I'm good. Let's do this."

I flashed her a smile, and the corners of her mouth twitched ever so slightly upward.

Sabrina won the faceoff. Like, decisively. I didn't think the other center's stick had even touched the ice before Sabrina was off and running with the puck. She passed it to Laws, who bullied her way past a defender into the offensive zone.

Sims hung back near the blue line, so I went in to join the fray, and I was almost immediately in a puck battle against the wall with two of their players and one of our forwards.

Then a stick appeared out of nowhere, darting between my skate and another player's. An instant later, both the stick and puck were gone.

I'd barely turned around before Sabrina fired the puck to Anastasia at the edge of the crease, and Anastasia tipped it in behind the goalie's back.

The roar of the hometown crowd after a goal was always intoxicating, but it had nothing on the sheer triumph on Sabrina's face. As she nearly bowled over Anastasia with a hug, she was beaming as if everything in her world was absolutely perfect.

I joined my teammates for celebratory hugs.

Sabrina clapped my back with her glove. "Pretty sure you're getting the secondary assist on that one."

I blinked. "I am?"

"I think so. The puck was on your stick when I grabbed it."

I scowled playfully. "So you robbed me!"

Her smile turned to an innocent grin. "I figured you wouldn't mind. And I mean…" She gestured up at the Jumbotron, which still showed GOAL in flashing red letters.

I gave her a fake punch to the shoulder. "Whatever."

She cackled all the way back to the bench for fist bumps.

As we took our seats on the bench and let the next shift hit the ice, I threw back some water, then leaned forward and stole a look at Sabrina. Her attention was fixed on the players even as she and Anastasia had an animated discussion about something. Strategizing, probably. Maybe deciding on a set play for their next shift.

She didn't look once toward section 114. Didn't look the least bit bothered by it, either.

Not until the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the period. At that point, we were out on the ice again; Sims and I had just started our shift, and Sabrina had been out with her line for over a minute and a half. As soon as the period ended, her fa?ade slipped a little. Her gaze flicked toward 114, which was the only section that didn't have people filing out to refill beers and hit the restroom.

I skated up to her and clapped her shoulder with my glove. "Hey. You good?"

Pressing her lips together, she nodded. "Yeah." We started toward the bench. "Just still can't believe he…" She trailed off, shaking her head.

"Well, it's his loss."

She turned to me, eyebrows up.

I shrugged. "He's the one missing out on an awesome game." I paused. "I'd say don't let him get to you, but a dick move like that…" I rolled my eyes.

She laughed humorlessly. "Yeah. I wish he didn't get to me."

"He's your dad," I said as we clomped off the ice and into the chute. On the way down the hall to the locker room, I added, "I think it would get to anyone."

Sabrina nodded.

At the locker room door, she stopped, so I did too. Gazing back toward the ice, she let her shoulders sag beneath her pads. "It's exhausting, you know? Just trying to live my damn life and enjoy my career, and he never misses an opportunity to take a dig." She gestured at the ice with her stick. "This is probably because I was stupid enough to ignore his call the other night and not listen to his voicemail."

I stiffened. "Oh. Shit. You think that's what this is about?"

"Maybe? Because, I mean, I know better. I know it'll always come back and bite me in the ass. But I just… I was so done with his bullshit, you know? So now… this." She scowled, leaning against the wall. "Probably why he made it seem like he was coming to a game. So he can rub it in my face that I didn't bother returning his call, so why should he bother coming to my game?"

"Those… don't sound like they're on equal footing."

She snorted derisively. "They do if you know my dad." Exhaling heavily, she picked at a thread on her glove. "Honestly, I knew he wasn't going to come, and that this was just him being an ass. That part doesn't bother me. It just…" She chewed her lip.

I nudged her gently. "What?"

Sabrina pushed out a ragged breath and met my gaze. "I don't know if he's doing it on purpose, or if he's too oblivious to even know it. But the reason this bothers me so much is because all I've ever wanted since I was a little kid was for my dad to come to one of my games." She swallowed hard, like it took some actual work. "Having him cheer for me was probably too much to ask, but I would've given anything for him to just show up. "

Just listening to the raw hurt in her voice made my chest ache. I'd gotten the impression for a while that Doran McAvoy was an ass, but holy crap.

She laughed again, the sound bitter and resigned. "God, I sound like I'm still that little kid. I'm living my dream, but what do I want?" She flailed a hand toward the ice. "For my dad to show up and act like it matters."

I took off my glove and squeezed her forearm. "You're not a little kid, but you are his daughter. I think anyone wants their parents to support them. And the fact that he'll do something like that "—I nodded in the direction she'd gestured—"says a lot about what kind of person he is."

"I know, right?" She let her head fall back against the wall. "But like, I know who he is. I've always known who he is." She sighed, gazing at the locker room door with unfocused eyes. "I wish I could learn how to stop caring that he doesn't care."

My heart ached for her. For the millionth time, I felt guilty for ever thinking she had an easy ride to the top. I couldn't imagine fighting against that strong of a current and still landing here.

I wish I knew what to tell her to make her feel better. But really, what could make someone feel better after a lifetime of bullshit from a person who should've been one of the loudest members of her cheering squad?

"I have to admit," she said softly, meeting my gaze, "I've always envied you in that department."

"You have?"

She gave a near soundless laugh. "Your parents are always there. They always seem so happy and supportive, and I mean, they've been to how many games this season?"

I wasn't sure why some heat rushed into my face. "They… Yeah, they've always been amazing about that. And now that they're only a few hours away…"

"I'm glad they can come to your games. My mom does, too, and my sister. Just…" She rolled her eyes and scowled. "Not my dad."

My heart ached beneath my chest protecter. It was both empathy and guilt; I'd been so sure she'd had everything handed to her, but I couldn't imagine playing hockey—hell, just living my life—without my family's enthusiastic support. There'd been times as a teenager when I'd resented having to work part-time jobs to pay for hockey, but I understood now that my parents had just been stretched too thin. They'd tried so, so hard, sacrificed so, so much, and sometimes they couldn't quite cover everything.

Even during those petulant moments of hating that I had to work between school and hockey, I'd never—not once —doubted my parents' support, both of my hockey and of me in general. I'd never—not even during the most hormone-soaked teenage fits of anger—questioned how much they loved me.

Sabrina… God, how did someone deal with that? And on top of it all, play at the level she did?

"That really sucks," I whispered. "Your dad—he should've supported you. And he should support you now."

"I know." She blew out a breath and managed a faint smile. "But I'm glad I'm in the minority. Most people I've played with—their experiences are better. And yours… Like I said, I've always envied you for your parents."

I had to swallow hard to push back the sudden lump in my throat. "You should've had that too."

The answer to that was a heavy shrug.

"You going to be okay for the rest of the game?" I asked.

Sabrina seemed to consider it. Then she rolled her shoulders and met my gaze as she nodded. "Yeah. I've played through worse."

I wasn't sure I wanted to know what was worse than her dad buying out an empty section.

Now definitely wasn't the time to ask for a tour of her Memory Lane, though, especially since she really did seem to be pulling herself together. She had her game face on, and anyway, we only had so much time left on this intermission.

So I gave her arm another reassuring squeeze, and we continued into the locker room to go about our intermission rituals.

A few minutes later, everyone started back to the ice. Sabrina put on her gloves and helmet, and as she headed out, she looked like she had it together. God, no wonder she was such dynamite on the ice—she was so used to playing under the weight of unimaginable bullshit from her dad on top of all the assumptions that she didn't deserve to be here at all.

Sabrina had to be one of the strongest women I'd ever met. We were lucky to have her as a teammate and captain, and I was damn lucky she was forgiving enough to treat me like a friend.

I followed my teammates out, Sabrina and the alternate captains bringing up the rear as always. After I'd skated a small circle, I looked her way, making sure she still had that game face on.

But right when I looked her direction, she did a double take and almost stumbled. I followed her gaze, and hell, I nearly lost my edge, too.

Section 114 wasn't empty anymore. The first few rows were full, and the ushers were guiding a long line of kids down the steps to fill the rest.

What the hell?

At our bench, Sabrina asked Tanya if she knew what was going on.

Our team reporter smiled. "They're kids who were sitting in the charity suites or whose teams had been invited to the VIP suites. I guess they all saw the big empty section and asked if they could sit closer." She half-shrugged. "Since the ticket holders for those seats hadn't shown up during the second period…"

I stared at the stream of kids coming down to take those seats. Then I turned to Sabrina, who was smiling as she too watched the kids.

Shifting my weight on my skates, I quietly asked, "Won't your dad just try to grab all the credit he can for buying seats for them?"

Sabrina shook her head. "Then he'll have to explain why the seats were empty for most of the game." She laughed with some actual feeling. "He's probably watching this on TV and losing his mind right now."

"You think he's actually watching?"

She pursed her lips. "Maybe? If nothing else, to see how I react to the big empty section that we both know he bought." She grinned. "I hope he's enjoying the show."

I laughed. "Think he's thrown a beer can at the TV yet?"

Sabrina cackled. "Probably. I'll bet he's apoplectic." Her eyes danced with mischief. "Let's piss him off even more by winning."

"Ooh, good idea. Especially since if we win, we'll leapfrog Detroit in the conference standings."

The way her face lit up made my heart skip. "Let's do it."

We bumped fists, and when the game started up again, we played our hearts out to do exactly that.

I hated that her dad was such a dick to her, but his comeuppance—even if only he and Sabrina knew about it—was thoroughly satisfying. All the kids in section 114 screamed their heads off and had an amazing time. Sabrina even tossed them some signed pucks during a stoppage, which clearly made their night.

I hoped Doran saw the whole thing. All the smiling kids. All of them cheering for Sabrina. Her enormous smile while she signed pucks and threw them over the glass. I could imagine him fuming and snarling over it, and I loved it.

And I especially hoped a commentator mentioned that the section was sold out but empty, so the arena staff made the decision to move the charity group kids into those seats. That way Doran couldn't pretend he'd done it on purpose to give those kids a chance to sit closer. Maybe we'd even get lucky and a reporter would have the spine to ask him why he bought that many seats and left them unoccupied. I couldn't wait to see how he'd try to back pedal from that .

They probably wouldn't ask—no one dared put Doran McAvoy on the spot—but I could dream. Either way, if he wanted to be miserable and spiteful instead of celebrating his talented, hard-working daughter, then fine.

Sabrina was, despite his best efforts, enjoying the game and having a great night. She was playing like the superstar he'd tried so hard to stop her from being.

I'd always been impressed by her hockey. Even during those times when I'd wanted to hate her and would try to tell myself she wasn't that good, I knew she was that good. Realizing now how much she'd had to overcome to be this star—how everything that we all believed gave her a boost had actually held her back—I was awestruck by her.

That she'd come out of it as a strong, kind person. That she'd soared to this level on her own power, not through nepotism.

And as I watched her taking a selfie with a kid through the glass, that huge smile on her face and her dark eyes sparkling…

I kind of wondered how I was going to be able to play next to her after all.

Do you have any idea how beautiful you really are?