19. Lila

Chapter 19

Lila

The Pittsburgh Bearcats had only existed since the beginning of this season. That seemed way too early to have any clearcut rivals as far as I was concerned, but apparently I was wrong.

Tonight, we were playing in New York.

Maybe it was because the men's teams had a rivalry, and that had just carried over to us? I had no idea. Whatever the cause, both teams and both sets of fans were out for blood tonight. Halfway through the first period, there'd already been four two-minute minor penalties—one slashing, one hooking, and two for roughing. Those last two probably could've been given five for fighting, but by the time their gloves had come off, the refs were breaking them up, much to the crowd's disappointment.

Now we were seven minutes into the second period. Sims was in the box for slashing, but now it was four-on-four for twenty-one seconds because one of New York's forwards had taken a penalty for boarding.

If we hadn't already had a fire under our collective asses, we would've now, because Laws could've been seriously hurt by that player who boarded her. It was a genuine miracle no one had thrown gloves over that. That, or the refs got the offending player into the box before anyone had a chance to come at her. When she came out? All bets were off.

I stole a glance at her while we set up for a faceoff. Tonight was as good a night as any for my first fight in the WHPL.

Come and get it, bitch.

That would have to wait until she was out of the box, though. For the time being, we were focused on making the whole team pay by way of a goal. They were, of course, going to make us work for it, and I suspected they were going to try to jailbreak their player. As much as I wanted her out of the box so I could answer the bell for her nearly injuring my teammate, I didn't want it to be at the expense of a goal against.

New York got the puck at the faceoff, but they didn't have it for long before Val snatched it away. Both sides battled it out in the neutral zone, and then Sims was free.

Power play time.

Sims had barely hit the ice before a blur of white, black, and gold zipped past me.

I followed. Sims always stayed behind in the neutral zone in case the action turned back our way, so I shot across the blue line into New York's zone.

The player who'd whizzed past me came to a stop near the boards, and I got a look at her number.

Five.

Sabrina. I grinned behind my visor; should've known it was her by the superhuman speed.

By the time I made it across the blue line, Sabrina was engaged in a board battle with two of New York's skaters behind the goal. I itched to join in the fray, but Anastasia was closer. I'd be one body too many; I was better off staying somewhere they could pass the puck once they got it free. Or where I could snatch it away from a New York player if she won the fight and tried to break away.

That was exactly what happened, too—one of their skaters got the puck and flung it around the boards, probably to be intercepted by someone waiting at the blue line.

I don't think so.

I lunged for the puck and just managed to stop it with the tip of my blade. I bobbled it a little, but I got it under control.

Behind me, someone tapped her stick on the ice, and I whipped around to pass it to her.

It had barely hit Sabrina's stick before she wound back and slapped it toward the goal.

The netminder might've been ready, but Anastasia was screening her, and the puck sailed past both of them and right into the twine.

Sabrina pumped her fist in the air and shouted as the goal light came on. Along with our other teammates, I skated over to hug her and congratulate her. As I did, she had a huge smile on her face, and when she locked eyes with me—

Oh my God. Good thing I was hugging her into the glass, because had I been trying to support my own weight, I probably would've lost an edge.

And why was I suddenly overcome with this need to kiss her right there on the ice?

I let her go and followed her and our other teammates to the bench for fist bumps, all the while reeling from my own stupid thought.

What the hell? That wasn't who we were.

But maybe it's who I want us to be.

Okay. Sure. I had a crush on her, especially now that I knew everything I'd thought about her was wrong. But I knew it probably wasn't mutual—despite Faith's thoughts on the matter still ringing in my head. Either way, on the ice in the middle of a game wasn't exactly the time to do anything about this attraction.

I'm losing my damn mind.

Fortunately, I still had hockey to hold my focus. That was one of the great things about this sport—it demanded a person's full attention.

I could finish losing my mind later. For now? Hockey.

As we were setting up for a faceoff, the announcer spoke in that reluctant way they sometimes did when they called opposing goals. The booing crowd almost drowned her out, but I heard her anyway:

"Pittsburgh goal. Number five, Sabrina McAvoy. Assisted by number seventy-two, Lila Hamilton. McAvoy from Hamilton at three minutes, thirty-four seconds."

I grinned to myself. Another assist for me. Another goal for Sabrina. And now we had the lead. And the home team's fans were pissed off. Nice.

The chippiness continued into the third period. I loved games like this—the competitiveness and the feistiness, what wasn't to love?

After an icing call, we set up again. Sabrina won the faceoff, and we were off and running. There was a battle in the neutral zone, and New York almost got into our zone before I stole the puck away.

I quickly scanned the ice and realized two of my teammates were wide open.

"Ana!" I called out, and as soon as Anastasia looked my way, I sent the puck to her. She passed it to Sims, who passed it back to me, and I sent it on to Val. She got into the zone, and we were once again setting up, cycling the puck and keeping the skaters' attention while we closed in on their goal.

I almost wanted to laugh because they were so focused on us and on the puck, and we were moving around so much, they hadn't noticed that only four of us were engaged in the puck-go-round.

From the corner of my eye, I tracked Sabrina, who'd quietly made her way from the faceoff dot around the back of the goal. I sensed when she was in the right position. The puck came to me. I wound back like I was going to send it to Sims, who was off to the goalie's right. When everyone—including the netminder—shifted toward Sims to anticipate the pass, I fired it to Sabrina.

Before the goalie or any of the skaters could course correct, Sabrina tipped it in just past the goalie's left skate.

The crowd made a collectively frustrated sound, and we all nearly toppled her as we went in for hugs.

"That's two!" I shouted over the noise. "Think you can get three tonight?"

Sabrina glanced up at the screen. Then she fixed a wicked grin on me that made me glad yet again that I was leaning some of my weight on her instead of balancing on my skates. "Hell, yeah. Let's do it."

Oh, yeah. We were doing it. We had seventeen minutes left in regulation. New York would be on her now that she was on hatty watch, but I had faith.

After fist bumps, Sims and I went to the bench along with Sabrina's line so some fresh bodies could come out. A couple of shifts later, Sabrina and her linemates were back out. About thirty seconds after that, Coach sent Sims and me to join them as the exhausted third D pair peeled off to come back to the bench.

We swung our legs over the boards and hurried toward the offensive zone, where the forwards were setting up.

Sims hung back by the point, and I skated closer to the action, watching the puck and my teammates. Anastasia passed it to me, and I sent it to Sims just to throw off New York's skaters. She sent it to Sabrina.

An opposing player managed to steal the puck mid-pass, and she darted toward the neutral zone. I followed, but something caught on my boot and I went flying, and the whistle blew before I'd even landed on my chest and forearms with a grunt. It wasn't a bad fall—not fun, but my gear did its job.

As I got up and dusted myself off, a player was arguing with a linesman. The crowd booed, and New York's coach was shouting something that looked like "Embellishment!"

Embellishment, my ass. You trip someone going as fast as I was, some airtime was a guarantee.

The ref made a gesture that I recognized as a warning to stop yapping unless the coach wanted a bench penalty.

Ooh, keep yapping. Let's make it a five-on-three. C'mon, Coach. I dare you.

She wisely shut her mouth, though. She clearly wasn't happy about it, and I was surprised smoke hadn't started curling out her ears, but she didn't continue arguing with the ref.

Fine. Five-on- four , then. We could handle that.

On the way into the offensive zone for the faceoff, Sabrina gave me two taps on the elbow. I nodded and skated over to pass the same gesture on to Sims. It was our sign for a set play from the faceoff. It was a risky one, but it could be deadly if it worked.

Sabrina won the faceoff and sent the puck to Sims. Sims headed for the blue line, ostensibly to set up at the point, but then—at least as it would appear to everyone watching—she lost control of the puck.

Predictably, the player who'd been skating after her doubled her efforts, lunging for the puck.

While that skater was slightly off balance, Sims seized the puck back and sent it past her, right onto my tape. I immediately passed it to Laws, who shot it between another skater's legs.

Sabrina was right at the edge of the crease. Both she and the goalie went for the puck, but Sabrina was faster. She snatched it away before it even reached the edge of the crease. The goalie had dived for the puck, and she couldn't get back up in time to stop Sabrina's shot.

For the third time tonight, the red light came on for Sabrina. Our fans drowned out the booing New York fans. Usually, there were only a few hats if someone scored a hat trick at an away game. Tonight, though, the crowd was full of Pittsburgh fans, and hats rained down all around us.

Sabrina had the first hat trick in Pittsburgh Bearcats history. Her first as a professional.

There was a time not too long ago when I'd have been rolling my eyes and resenting the fact that she was the one to notch that record.

Tonight, though, I knew who she was and where she'd come from. I was glad she was the one to get our first hatty. She'd worked hard. She deserved it.

As the ice crew collected hats while a few more fluttered down, the goalie and one of the skaters tried to scream about goaltender interference, but two of the officials had had unobstructed views of the goal. Sabrina's skates and stick never crossed into the blue paint, and she never interfered with the goalie's ability to protect the goal. It was a good, clean goal, and the refs weren't about to review it.

When the Jumbotron showed the replay—yeah, no, there was no goaltender interference. The only reason Sabrina had hindered the netminder's ability to do her job was that the netminder herself had come out of the crease, and as she'd tried to make the save, her stick had tangled with Sabrina's legs. If anything, she was lucky she didn't get a penalty for tripping Sabrina; then again, if Sabrina had fallen like any other player would have in that scenario, the coaches would've lost their minds about embellishment all over again.

Ugh, teams like this were exhausting and so were their fans. Not every goal against was a product of goaltender interference, and not every penalty was embellished. Get a grip.

But then the ref skated to the blue line, and the whole arena went silent.

"New York is challenging the goal for goaltender interference."

A mix of cheers and boos went up. Everyone on the Pittsburgh bench exchanged "is she for real?" looks.

The officials went to the penalty box and pulled on their headphones, and they reviewed the goal for an alarmingly long time.

"That's not good," I muttered to Sabrina.

She scowled and shook her head. "No, it isn't."

"They're probably just being thorough," Sims chimed in. "They said it was clean and wouldn't review it, so they're probably worried they missed something."

Sabrina and I both considered it, then shrugged. She might've been right.

As the replay appeared above our heads, dramatically slowed down, I had to assume the New York coach's heart was sinking. It was so obviously not goaltender interference. It had been obvious in the moment and in the initial replay, and in the super slow motion from above? Good God. The stick hadn't even interfered with Sabrina as much as I'd thought initially. At this speed, it was clear the only contact made between Sabrina and the netminder was the netminder bumping Sabrina's calf after she'd made the shot. And that was well outside the crease, too.

If that was goaltender interference, I'd eat my visor.

The referees broke from their huddle by the penalty box, and one skated to the blue line. Instantly, the entire arena again fell silent.

"After review of the coach's challenge," the referee's voice echoed through the stadium, "there is no goaltender interference." She made a gesture like an umpire declaring a baserunner safe, and the mix of boos and cheers almost masked when she added, "We have a good goal." Then she motioned toward New York's bench. "New York has a two-minute penalty for delay of game. Pittsburgh will have a two-minute power play."

Beside me, Sabrina flashed a toothy grin. "Well, then." She tapped her stick against mine. "Let's see if we can put another in the net."

Sounded like a plan to me.

But about twelve seconds into my next shift, someone checked Sabrina hard from behind. Not a penalty, but I saw red.

Especially when I realized it was the same little shit who'd boarded Laws earlier.

Fuck it. We had a solid lead with only a handful of minutes to go.

I skated in front of her, locking eyes, and I dropped my gloves.

She flung off her gloves too, and as we squared off, her expression said, "Bring it on."

Game on, then.

I swung first, then grabbed a handful of her jersey. She did the same, but missed. The second time, her fist connected with my nose, which stunned me enough for her to throw me off-balance. As soon as I realized I was going down, I threw myself toward her, using her arm and her jersey for leverage.

She hit the ice first with me straddling her.

Then the refs were hauling us apart, blowing their whistles like their lives depended on it as our teammates banged their sticks on the ice and boards. The crowd was a mix of cheers and boos—typical.

I let the ref pull me up, and she barked, "Get in the box and clean yourself up."

Clean myself—

Oh. The telltale trickle above my upper lip told me I was bleeding, and when I touched my lip, my fingers indeed came away with a smear of blood.

Eh. I'd won the fight. I could live with a bloody nose.

I skated across the ice to the boos of the New York fans and the cheers of those from Pittsburgh. I sat down in the box and pressed a towel to my face. The bleeding wasn't too bad. My nose throbbed a little, and my jaw was sore. Had she hit me in the jaw, too? Maybe I'd caught an elbow on the way down. Everything had happened so fast, I'd lost track of every way we'd made contact.

She dropped into the other box and shouted something at me through the glass, but I ignored her. As heated as I was about her dirty checks—especially boarding Laws—I'd learned long ago that nothing pissed off a fired-up player more than ignoring them. She'd get even angrier, shouting and gesticulating at me, while I cooled down and caught my breath.

By the time our five-minute penalty was over, I'd be calm and collected. Hell, I already was—I'd defended my teammates and let her know that kind of bullshit wasn't okay. I wasn't fired up anymore. From the screaming and banging on the glass beside me? Well, that was the kind of pissed off that often led to sloppy play and costly penalties.

Keep it up, dear. Be my guest.

Oh, she did. When our penalties were over, only two minutes remained on the clock. A smart coach would've kept her fuming defender on the bench, but apparently she thought the better approach was to turn the angry player loose anyway. They'd pulled their goalie from the net so they could have a sixth skater on the ice, and they were valiantly trying to score the two goals they'd need to tie up the game.

Number thirty-six—the one I'd fought—decided that would be a good time to cross check Laws, which caused her to lose the puck.

The whistle blew.

New York's coach started losing her mind.

And once again, with less than two minutes on the clock, Pittsburgh was on the power play.

I wondered how number thirty-six felt as she sat in the box and watched Val and me assist Laws on a decisive power play goal.

In her skates, I'd have been super pissed. Mostly at myself.

In my own skates? With my team notching a decisive win against these rivals? I was thrilled.

The buzzer sounded not long after that. Third star went to New York's goaltender for making almost fifty saves.

Second star went to…

Me?

I blinked. "Wait, what?"

"Are you surprised?" Sims smacked my shoulder. "You got three assists tonight!"

My jaw fell open. I… holy crap. I had, hadn't I?

Well, shit. I might've ended up with a bloody nose and a bruised jaw, but three assists and the second star—couldn't complain about that.

First star was, of course, Sabrina.

Earlier in the season, I'd have fumed over that. Tonight, I knew better.

And tonight, I knew she'd earned that first star.

A couple of hours after the game, we were in an airport lounge waiting to board our charter. I'd eaten at the arena, but I couldn't resist a cup of coffee and a pastry.

I'd barely settled into one of the cushy leather chairs beside a little table when someone took the other. And somehow, I wasn't surprised—and yet was still startled as all hell—to see that it was Sabrina.

"Oh, hey." I couldn't help smiling, and I was irrationally sure she'd heard or felt my pulse jump. "Did you get one of the pastries?" I nodded toward the buffet.

"Of course." She gestured at her plate. "They're amazing."

"Always are." I took a bite of mine, mostly to avoid saying something stupid. I was sure I was going to say something stupid now that Sabrina was here. I'd had that feeling a lot lately, and it was… weird. I wasn't the smoothest in the world with attractive women, but I wasn't usually like this.

Mercifully oblivious to my mind spinning out over her, Sabrina held my gaze and grimaced. "How's your face? After that fight?"

I gingerly touched my jaw. "Sore in a few places, but I'll be okay." I grinned. "Totally worth it after what she did to you and Laws."

"No kidding." Sabrina scowled, shaking her head. "That was totally uncalled for. Both times."

"Right? But that seems to be how this team plays."

"It does. Can't wait to face them again."

I groaned. We were in the same division, so we'd be playing against each other three more times this season. Couldn't fucking wait.

A few minutes later, our boarding call was announced. As we got up, I caught myself feeling both relieved that I was no longer in danger of saying something stupid and… what could I say? I was disappointed that I was no longer sitting with her. That I'd squandered a chance to really talk to her, stupidity or awkwardness notwithstanding.

But to my surprise—and relief, and panic—as I took my seat on the plane, Sabrina gestured at the one beside me. "Can I join you?"

Oh fuck yes. Wait, no. How am I supposed to relax with you sitting here? God, yes, please sit here.

What the hell? Was I a teenager again?

Clearing my throat, I nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

She put her bag in the overhead bin, then settled beside me. We exchanged smiles, but didn't say much for a while.

Then she was checking something on her phone, and her expression suddenly darkened. "For fuck's sake," she muttered, and typed something with sharp, irritated taps on the screen.

After she'd apparently sent the message, I cautiously asked, "Bad news?"

"Not really." Sighing, she leaned back against the seat. "Just a reporter sniffing around, trying to get me to talk about Ty." Sabrina rolled her eyes. "They didn't ask me about him half as much while we were married as they do now."

"Wow, seriously?" I made a face. "What do they even want to know?"

She made a tired gesture before letting her hand drop onto the armrest. "I think they just want dirt. Like everyone is convinced there's something scandalous about it. Either I left him for Kendra, or he was cheating, or…" Closing her eyes, she sighed heavily. "I just tell them we weren't compatible. I wanted to play hockey, and he didn't want a wife who played hockey."

"Was that—was that actually the issue? Did he try to stop you from playing?"

She nodded slowly, gazing with unfocused eyes at the back of the seat in front of her. "That was what finally made me leave, yeah."

"And they don't think that's juicy enough?"

"Apparently not."

"Wow." I studied her. "Can I ask you about something personal?"

Sabrina let her head loll toward me as she raised her eyebrows. "Sure."

"When you were married—"

Her wince stopped me in my tracks.

I chewed my lip. "I'm sorry. We don't have to… If you don't…"

"It's fine." She picked up her glass. "It's wasn't a great time in my life, but I can talk about it."

I hesitated.

"It's fine," she said again. "What's on your mind?"

I proceeded cautiously. "Just… I saw some interviews with you during that time. And you were at a lot of his games—things like that." I paused, watching for signs that I really was treading where I didn't belong. "You never seemed happy."

She winced again and dropped her gaze. Before I could insist she didn't have to talk about it, she said, "I wasn't." She swallowed. "I never was."

I chewed my lip, not quite sure how to ask what I thought was the obvious question.

She watched her thumb running back and forth along the edge of the armrest. "To tell you the truth, I think Ty was more in love with my name than he was with me."

"But you changed your name when you were married to him."

"Yep." She laughed bitterly. "What better way for him to lay claim to me than to make me take his name? He wanted the clout of being Doran McAvoy's son-in-law and Mark McAvoy's brother-in-law, and he wanted the world to know that I was his ."

My lips parted. "Seriously?"

Sabrina nodded, not looking at me. "It was, um… It was oppressive."

"That sounds miserable."

"It was. And looking back, I basically walked right into a marriage like my parents' marriage. In fact, my mom is a big part of why I got away from him when I did."

"Yeah?"

Sabrina nodded. "Ty and I came to visit during the off season. While he was golfing with my dad and brother, I went over to her place. She sat me down and said, ‘You aren't going to want to hear this, but it's what I wish someone had told me while I was married to your father.'"

"Whoa."

"Yeah. And like, I knew she was miserable with him. I saw what she put up with and how he treated her. I just didn't think Ty was doing the same things, you know?" She huffed a caustic laugh, watching her fingers trace the condensation on her glass. "At first I was like, no, he's nothing like Dad. But she just calmly laid it all out. How he was just passive-aggressive enough to keep me in line. And how she could see him using me as a trophy wife so that everyone knew he was married to Doran McAvoy's daughter." Sabrina made a disgusted noise. "I went and watched a bunch of his interviews, and I realized he almost never missed an opportunity to mention my dad."

I wrinkled my nose. "What a brown-noser."

"Right?" She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, Mom didn't have that for my dad—a name or a family he could lord over people—but she was a model. He insisted she never left the house without a full face of makeup, her wedding rings, a Rolex—the works. He wanted her at every home game, and he pushed her to be involved in—ideally in charge of—everything the team did for charity and whatever. Not because he cared about the causes, but because he wanted people to see his beautiful model wife doing things in his name."

I couldn't help making a disgusted face. "Oh my God. No shame whatsoever."

"None." Sabrina slumped back in her seat and rolled her shoulders a little. "So, yeah, Mom could see my marriage going the same way hers did, and she told me to get out. Especially since Ty wanted kids, and he'd been pushing me hard in that direction."

That caught me by surprise. "He was pressuring you? And you didn't want them?"

"I…" She chewed her lip, her eyes losing focus. "It wasn't that I didn't want them. I think deep down, even before my mom pointed everything out, I knew I didn't want kids with him . And once I realized I wanted out, I definitely didn't want to be chained to him. My mom was chained to my dad for eleven years after the divorce, until my sister turned eighteen, and Dad made it hell for her."

"Jesus Christ," I breathed.

"Right?" She laughed bitterly. "I feel so stupid. Getting manipulated right into the same situation I swore I'd never get into."

Frowning, I shook my head. "I don't think you were stupid. Manipulated, yes, but that's on him, not you."

"No, but I feel like I should've seen it coming." Sabrina rolled her eyes. "I guess I was just so used to Dad's bullshit, I didn't notice it coming from Ty. And it…" She hesitated. "It doesn't help that I was struggling with my sexuality, too." Her cheeks turned pink. "I'd known for a long time that I was attracted to women, but I spent years trying not to be. Or trying not to admit I was."

"Why's that?"

"Mostly because so many kids liked to tease me that I was a lesbian because I was into sports and I wasn't the girliest girl growing up." She rolled her eyes. "Of course a lot of that goes back to my dad, too. He said women's sports were just a place for dykes to pretend they were men."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"I know, right? And I think a part of me was afraid that if I admitted I was a lesbian—if I came out—then I'd just be proving him right." She scoffed and shook her head. "It's so stupid, and I hate that I—"

"No, it's not stupid," I said gently. "You've spent your whole life getting rejected and judged by your dad. If my dad acted like that, I wouldn't want to give him another reason to be a dick to me either."

"Still. I just wish he didn't have so much influence over me or my life anymore."

"Which makes it even more annoying is that no one can write about you or talk about you without mentioning him."

She scrunched up her face and nodded. "That part sucks, let me tell you."

I exhaled. "And here I was frustrated that they can't talk about me without rambling on about my knee and how it makes me a liability."

Sabrina shook her head. "It doesn't make you a liability. Half the League has had some kind of serious injury at some point in their career, and any one of us could have a career-ending injury at any time. You're not a liability. Hockey is."

I laughed because that was somehow the only way I could think of to express the relief that came from her comment. "Well, let's hope it doesn't mess up my knee again. Because I'm really enjoying this damn sport."

"Me too." Our eyes locked, and she finally smiled with some actual feeling.

Then, unexpectedly, she dropped her gaze and cleared her throat. "Listen, uh, one of the reasons I wanted to sit with you—" She glanced around as if to make sure none of our teammates were eavesdropping. Facing me again, she said, "It hasn't been announced officially yet, but Coach Reilly said I've been selected for the All-Stars."

I was shamefully aware of how much that would've irritated me before, but much like I was with her hat trick and first star, I was thrilled for her. "That's great! I don't think anyone will be surprised."

She laughed softly. "I don't know. We've got some pretty badass players on this team. But I was bringing it up because they said I can bring a plus one to the event." She lifted her eyebrows, and she actually sounded a little shy as she asked, "Would you want to come with me?"

I straightened. "You'd… want me to go with you?"

"Well, yeah." She shrugged as if it was no big deal, and maybe it wasn't. "Euli is bringing her wife and Val is bringing her daughter. I don't want to go alone, you know?"

My heart went into overdrive. Had Faith been right about her? That Sabrina was as into me as I was into her?

But… she could've just wanted me to come along as a friend and teammate. Maybe no one else on the team could go. Maybe her sister was busy that weekend. It didn't… It didn't have to mean Sabrina was into me, and I really, really didn't want to make an ass of myself by assuming.

I did want to go, though, and we'd just have to see how things went between us.

"Sure, I'd love to go!" I smiled. "I've never been to the All-Stars. I mean, I went to our exhibition games at the men's All-Stars, but I've never been to ours, you know?"

"Neither have I. So, you're in?"

"Definitely!"

The way her face lit up should not have screwed with my pulse like that. But it absolutely did.

And so did the invitation to be her plus one for the All-Stars.

Holy fuck. Maybe Faith was right after all.