2. Sabrina

Chapter 2

Sabrina

Today was stressful enough without the sight of that familiar black Ferrari parked beside the moving van in my driveway.

I swore at my steering wheel and seriously debated finding a reason to not be here for a few hours, but I pulled up behind the car anyway. After all, I'd left my sister in charge of the move while I was at a doctor's appointment, and while she was reasonably assertive with the movers, she was an absolute doormat for our father. Most people were. The last thing I needed was for Dad to take over and tell the movers to unpack and leave, and he was not above that.

I shut off the engine, paused for a moment to steel myself, and then got out and headed inside. I'd known when I'd come back to Buffalo after my contract ended in Seattle that it would suck living this close to my dad, and I'd been right. Good thing I was getting the hell out of here again.

Two movers were carefully maneuvering a desk through the kitchen toward the garage, so Dad hadn't called off the move. Yet. I gave them a smile and a quick nod, then hurried past them to find Dad and Zoe.

As I came up the stairs to the second floor, Dad's voice filtered down the hall, and I followed the sound.

"This is ridiculous," he was saying. "It's a waste of time, money, and my hard-earned reputation."

"She's earned her spot," Zoe replied weakly. "Give her a chance. She'll—"

"It's women's hockey." Dad's laugh was full of derision. "There's nothing to ‘earn'."

I rolled my eyes. Then I stepped into the main bedroom, where I found my sister and father standing amidst a sea of boxes. Zoe jumped, her face suddenly coloring as if she hadn't been defending me. Dad turned to me, and his expression hardened. He was about to say something, but I spoke first.

"It's not wasting your time or your money," I said coldly. "And it's my reputation at play here, not yours."

Dad tsked. "You have no reputation without mine."

Anger surged in my chest, but I kept it down where it belonged. The last thing I needed was him telling me I was too emotional, which was exactly what he would do the second I let the cracks show.

Keeping my tone even—something I'd perfected over a lifetime of going toe-to-toe with him—I said, "Your reputation didn't score those goals or—"

"Neither did you," he snapped.

I had to fight hard not to grind my teeth or lash out at him. Dad hated the way I played. He'd been the leading goal scorer in the men's league for multiple seasons. I racked up points that kept me well within the upper ranks of my own leagues—whether the pro one I was in now or major juniors before—but I had far more assists than goals. Always had. Yes, I absolutely could and did score, but I'd been a playmaker since my youth days. I was the one who'd fight through the other skaters, get the puck into the offensive zone, win the board battles, and send it to the person who was in a better position to shoot, whether she was at the blue line or on the edge of the crease. I was faster than most of my teammates, more agile in maneuvering around and between opposing players, and I used that speed and agility to get the puck where we needed it before letting a sniper finish the job.

My dad was convinced that I was just compensating for being a weak shot. My coaches, teammates, and fans knew better—that I absolutely could make the shots when I needed to, and they didn't give a damn either way when my playmaking ultimately resulted in goals. I didn't care who got the puck in the net and who got the A as long as it meant a point for the team, and even my dad couldn't deny that my assists were frequently the reason my teams won by multiple goals.

But he didn't like my style of play, and he didn't like women's hockey being a thing in the first place, so what was the point in arguing?

"It doesn't matter how good a female hockey player is," he'd told me once when I'd been begging to sign up for youth hockey. "There's nothing more useless than being good at something worthless."

Thank God my mother had secretly signed me up, and since Dad had still been an active player back then, he'd been gone too much to notice.

Here in the bedroom of the rental house I was moving out of, I steeled myself and, once again, kept my voice mellow and even. "No one's asking you to come to the games. But I'm doing this, and the contract is signed." I shook my head. "So there's nothing to argue about."

His lips pulled tight as he crossed his arms and glared down at me. "Hockey is a men's sport, Sabrina. This women's nonsense will never be taken seriously, and neither will the girls who play it."

I gritted my teeth. And people wondered why our mom had left him. "The League has twenty-four teams now and plays for sellout crowds."

Dad huffed with annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Sellout crowds of little girls and people who want to gawk at women who think their sports matter."

It was all I could do not to let a sly smile come to life. "The ticket sellers don't care who's buying the tickets and filling the seats."

"They should," he muttered.

Yeah, yeah. I'd heard it before. As far as he was concerned, ten little girls in a crowd were worth less than one adult man, and if men and boys weren't going to games, then no one who mattered was. Sometimes I wondered if he was one of those nameless, faceless assholes who littered the comments on articles or posts about women's hockey, announcing that "no one cares about women's sports" and "beer leagues are better than this bullshit." I didn't read the comments anymore, though, so I wouldn't be able to comb them for turns of phrase that would give him away.

Right now, I just wished he would go away.

I pushed my shoulders back and turned to my sister, who looked like she wanted to crawl into a hole instead of stand here listening to us argue. "We should load up the cars while we still have daylight."

That brought her to life. She perked up and quickly said, "Good idea. I'll pull mine up behind yours."

Then she hurried past me and down the hall, probably relieved to be escaping from the never-ending headbutting between Dad and me.

As coolly as I could, I faced my father. "The contracts are signed. The movers are here." I shrugged. "There's no point in arguing over any of this."

"There is, though." He tightened his arms across his chest. "There's the matter of my name on your jersey."

That fury again tried to surge to the surface, but once again, I tamped it down. "It's my name, too."

His laugh was full of derision. "And you were certainly quick to change it back when it came time for you to start this"—he made air quotes—"‘professional hockey' nonsense. Weren't you?"

I very nearly lost control of my temper. Even two years later, that wound was still far too raw, and I was pretty sure he knew it. Some aggravation slipped into my voice as I said, "I didn't change back to my maiden name so I could play hockey. I changed it back to my name because I didn't want his anymore."

He laughed again, sounding more patronizing than before. "Of course, it was just convenient that you left him and took back my name right when the girls' league took an interest in you."

Before I could respond, he brushed past me and strode out of the room.

I stood there for a moment, eyes closed as I took in a few slow, deep breaths. The press had floated that same theory about why I'd reclaimed the McAvoy name shortly before signing my PTO with Seattle. So many people were convinced my name took me farther than my talent or hockey IQ, and yeah, changing it back right before I came out of retirement did raise some eyebrows. I just had to wonder if, much like I suspected he was a misogynistic internet troll, Dad was the reason that particular theory had gotten so damn much mileage.

I rolled my stiff shoulders and looked around my mostly empty bedroom. I knew the truth. I knew that I hadn't cared about reclaiming my name nearly as much as I had about shedding my ex-husband's. Getting this far away from him had been well worth it, even if it had given my dad and the media rumor fodder.

I'd proven in Seattle that I could still play hockey even after I'd retired from competition. My dad's name hadn't racked up those points or defended our zone. I had, and I would again.

Hockey mattered to me. Women's hockey mattered to me and to the fans. For the next four years and hopefully longer, I would play like I was worth the contract I'd signed. Because I was .

My dad would just have to make peace with that.

"Did you kick this Hamilton chick's puppy or something?" Zoe called out from the couch in our barely unpacked Pittsburgh condo.

I looked up from making myself a protein shake. "Huh?"

She held up her phone. "Lila Hamilton. She just did an interview, and… meow."

"Seriously?" I picked up my shake and moved into the living room. I eased myself onto the couch, legs still aching from this morning's workout and from moving boxes and furniture around. Zoe scooted closer to me, and she restarted the video as she held up her phone so I could see.

In front of a Pittsburgh Bearcats backdrop, Lila Hamilton stood in a team hoodie and a backwards baseball cap.

My first thought was… Wow. Someone had a glow-up since Juniors. I mean, I'd played with her at the Olympics and I'd seen her around the League. I'd played against her last season. But that didn't mean I'd stopped to look at her or anyone else. The regular season and playoffs were absolute chaos. I'd gone to the gym in mismatched socks like three times during the postseason. When I was focused on hockey, I missed things.

And apparently one of the things I missed was that Lila Hamilton was seriously hot now. She'd been cute back in Juniors and the times I'd seen her since. Today, though? Whoa. Her blond hair, which she used to wear in a single long braid during games, was shorter now, the ends just brushing past her collar. Her sleeves were rolled up enough to reveal the elaborate tattoos covering her forearms. Long, dark eyelashes framed intense blue eyes above skate-sharp cheekbones, and she had those slim, perfect lips I could just stare at for ages.

Playing alongside her, you'd think I would've figured out sooner that I was a lesbian. That came with the territory, though, of not only hyper-focusing on hockey, but of being told all my life only lesbians played hockey. Years of defensively telling everyone "I am not a lesbian!" had convinced myself for a good long time.

I sure knew now, though, and that woman was just… wow.

Until she started talking, anyway.

Her first few answers were benign and pleasant enough. She was excited to be in Pittsburgh. Her knee was much better now. She was happy to be playing with some of her previous teammates.

That last question prompted a reporter to ask, "What are your thoughts on Sabrina McAvoy as an addition to the team?"

Lila's media training slipped for a second, her neutral expression allowing disgust and annoyance through, but she quickly schooled it away. "I've only played with her a few times, so I don't really know what she's like as a teammate. She's good, though." Lila half-shrugged. "Hopefully she'll bring what she did in Seattle to Pittsburgh." Her smile was frosty. "At the end of the day, I don't care what name is on someone's jersey. I care how they handle the puck and work with the team."

Zoe whistled even though she'd already watched it once. "Damn. You think the PR team is going to let that slide?"

"Probably," I muttered into my protein shake. Truth was, the comment could be interpreted as a dig, but it could also just be read as someone saying the most important thing was a cohesive team that worked together. Which was true; few things threw off a team like one person trying to be the solo star.

But on the heels of her mask slipping… I suspected it was a dig.

I just rolled my eyes. "Well, this will be a fun season."

"At least she won't be on your line."

There was that. Lila played defense and I played offense. Though she would probably be on the top D pair and I would most likely be a top six forward, which meant a lot of minutes per game for both of us, and a lot of overlapping shifts. And Lila was almost always on her team's top power play unit. So was I. So… yeah, we'd be playing a lot of the same minutes.

Still, that only meant interacting on the ice. We didn't have to be friends the rest of the time. There'd be plenty of other teammates I could hang out with, including a few I'd played with in the past.

If Lila didn't like me or had some kind of issue with me—if she bought into the idea that my name was the only reason I wore any team's jersey—fine. She wouldn't be any worse than my dad when it came to accusing me of nepotism, and at least she took women's hockey seriously.

At the end of the day, I knew I was good. I had the stats and the accolades to prove it. Hannah and Chloe also knew I was good. They'd both pursued me from the moment they'd been hired on in Pittsburgh.

It didn't matter if I was a McAvoy. I was a hockey player, and I was a damn good one.

Lila Hamilton could die mad about it.