27. Lila

Chapter 27

Lila

Hockey fans would be talking about these playoffs for decades to come, I just knew it.

Even after Pittsburgh swept Toronto, everyone had expected them to lose the Eastern Conference title to Hartford. Pittsburgh was good, but Hartford had dominated the League all season long. And anyway, no expansion team had made it to the Cup finals in their first season.

During the second intermission of the first game of the Eastern Conference finals, a commentator mused, "If I were the Cup engravers, I'd go ahead and start setting up the machine with all the names of the Hartford players."

Now Hartford fans were pissed, saying he'd jinxed them. That, or he'd lit a fire under Pittsburgh's ass. Knowing my team, I'd say it was a little of both, especially after hearing how my teammates reacted to that comment.

"Screw him," Anya said. "It's only game one!"

"We're only down by two," Euli had declared. "We've come back from worse."

Whatever the case, Pittsburgh came out in the third period, clawed their way back from a 4-2 deficit, and won with a buzzer beater. The next three games were absolute bloodbaths, with neither team willing to give an inch and Pittsburgh clearly playing with a chip on their collective shoulders.

In the end, Pittsburgh committed the upset of the century, eliminating Hartford in a 7-2 blowout in game six. The photo of Sabrina hoisting the Eastern Conference trophy and shouting with triumph was Pulitzer material as far as I was concerned.

Of course, I might've been a little biased.

Now Pittsburgh was the first expansion team to make it into the finals in their inaugural season, and after six games, it came down to this: game seven. Someone was taking the Cup home tonight. It was either us or the reigning champions, the Calgary Blizzard.

From the energy in the locker room, every member of our roster was more than ready to hoist the Cup.

"Let's do this!" Coach Reilly cried over raucous cheers from the team.

Everyone was pumped. Everyone was ready .

Almost everyone.

Jamie Tucker looked absolutely shell-shocked. She was a young defender who'd been brought up from the minors during the Eastern Conference Championships to fill in for Nora, who was out with a concussion. Coming up to the majors was intimidating enough—being called up during the playoffs? That had to be terrifying.

"Hey." I nudged her arm. "You okay?"

She looked up at me with wide eyes. "I think so? I only played two games in the regular season. Now I'm…" She gestured with her glove at a Cup finals banner, and she gulped.

I eased myself down on the bench beside her and leaned my crutches against my leg. "It's a lot of pressure. Believe me, I get it. But you're not out there alone, you know? And you wouldn't be here at all if you hadn't earned a place."

The fear held fast in her expression. "I know. I… On some level, I know that. But it's still…" She swallowed again, and she looked like she was on the verge of tears.

"Take a breath, okay?" I rested my hand on her padded shoulder and looked right in her eyes. "At most, you're going to play seven or eight minutes the whole game. If all you do out there is keep the puck out of our zone and out of our net while the other defenders catch their breath, then you're doing just fine. No one's expecting you to go out there and score the game-winning goal."

She laughed nervously. "That's good, I guess."

"It is. And you're going to be paired with Euli." I nodded toward her D partner. "She's an offensive defender, so she might go into the offensive zone sometimes, which means all you have to do is stay back in case someone tries to break away. If they do, Euli is fast as hell—she won't leave you hanging."

Jamie exhaled slowly.

"You've got this, okay?" I gave her shoulder a firm pat. "This isn't all on you—I promise."

A smile finally formed, and she nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."

The team was getting ready to head out for warmups, so I said a quick goodbye to my teammates—plus a slightly longer one to my girlfriend—and hobbled toward the elevator. With a couple of badge swipes, I got to the second level and into the owners' box where I settled my aching carcass into a cushy leather seat.

"Are you comfortable?" Dad asked. "Do you want me to see if we can get you some ice for—"

"I'm good." I offered a reassuring smile.

He didn't look convinced and neither did my mom. They'd been fawning all over me at home and at every game, and I doubted that would stop any time soon.

I elbowed him gently. "Trust me—I'm fine."

"Okay. But just say so if you're not, you hear me?"

I smiled. "I will."

Below us, the game kicked off again. I hated watching from up here. I wanted to be in on the action, damn it. The last couple of weeks, though, I'd settled into it to some extent. Especially since Sadie—the defensive coach—and I would text throughout the game; I'd tell her things that were more visible to me up here than they were down at ice level.

They're angling for Anya's stick side, I said early in the first period. Someone needs to protect that side.

Shortly after that, I noticed a defender stuck closer to that side of the net. Good thing, too—that one shot absolutely would've gone in if Sims hadn't been there to block it. She'd stopped the puck with her boot and limped off the ice, but she'd been back out for her next shift, so I suspected the impact had just stung. Given that she hadn't let the player score, I didn't imagine she complained about it too much.

Not long after that, there was a commercial break. The Zamboni gates opened and the ice crew came out to clean the ice.

A roar of applause went up, and I looked to the Jumbotron to figure out why.

As soon as my gaze landed on the screen, my heart dropped into my stomach.

A gray-haired man in a suit stood from his chair in one of the other suite level boxes, beaming as he waved to the cheering crowd.

Below that:

Doran McAvoy. 4-time Cup Champion.

Sabrina McAvoy's father.

Beside me, my own father bristled. My mother glowered, shaking her head. Neither said anything—they didn't have to.

The camera changed to Sabrina, who was looking up at the screen as well. When she saw herself, she smiled and waved, and I hoped no one else could see what I did—the hurt behind the smile. The frustration.

Don't let him get to you, baby, I silently begged. Don't let him get into your head.

He'd been at most of the games in Pittsburgh since the playoffs started. He and his daughter hadn't interacted much because there simply hadn't been time; either she was being dragged away for media availability or a flight, or he was too busy holding court with fans and reporters. All told, over the past four weeks, they'd probably spent an hour in each other's company.

Sabrina still didn't know how to feel about his presence. Sometimes she looked up at where he was sitting and she seemed to get choked up. Other times, she'd grit her teeth while his face was on the Jumbotron.

"I'm glad he's here," she'd told me in bed the other night. "I'm glad he finally supports me. But I'm so focused on the playoffs, I haven't had the time or energy to process any of this and figure out what I feel. Or what I should feel."

I'd wrapped her in my arms and kissed her temple. "He's a hockey player. He of all people should understand where your focus is right now."

That had seemed to do the trick, and she'd relaxed and drifted off a moment later. I'd stayed awake, listening to her breathe and mentally threatening Doran McAvoy if he stepped out of line.

I wanted to tell her she had every right to reject his ass. Yeah, he was coming around to her career and her sport, but at what point was it too little too late? If the Olympics and Junior Worlds hadn't been enough to get his attention, wasn't she within her rights to say he'd waited too long?

But that wasn't my place. She had to decide how to deal with him. All I could do was support her and gently encourage her to be kind to herself.

I had suggested a counselor during one of our FaceTime calls a couple of weeks ago. Even if her father's intentions were good and everything with him was the best-case scenario going forward, there was no shame in talking to a disinterested third party who could help her sort out her emotions. I'd always listen and offer my thoughts, of course, but I wasn't a trained professional who actually knew how to navigate these murky waters.

"Whatever you need," I'd told her. "You know you have my support."

On my screen, she'd smiled. "I know. I don't know how I'd handle any of this without you."

I doubted that; she was stronger than most people I knew. But I was still glad to help.

Far below me on the ice, the game continued, the screen having shifted away from Doran.

Sabrina's line was the first out after the commercial break, and she lost the faceoff. Then she was able to get the puck, but promptly turned it over.

"C'mon, baby," I murmured. "Get it together."

She didn't. Not that shift, anyway. She was a mess. Two more turnovers, one of which resulted in a scoring chance, and then she fanned a shot on goal.

Mercifully, her shift ended, and I craned my neck to peer at her on the bench. Coach Reilly was bent over beside her, a hand on her shoulder, and Sabrina was nodding along. Coach didn't seem angry; knowing her, she was asking if Sabrina was okay.

And knowing Sabrina, she was insisting she was even though she clearly wasn't.

It couldn't be a coincidence that she fell apart right after the fans had cheered for her dad. Right after his face had been plastered up on the giant screen so she couldn't forget he was here. That had happened at a couple of other games, too, and it threw her off every time.

Shit. Was this part of his plan? Fuck with her head just by being here? Even if he didn't respect women's hockey or his own daughter, he wasn't that malevolent, was he?

Fortunately, Sabrina's next shift was better. She wasn't completely herself, but she protected the puck, her passes were crisp, and that shot she fired at the net was just barely deflected by the crossbar. If the problem was her dad or she was just getting into her own head, she seemed to be pulling herself back out of it.

I didn't wait for the period to end before I headed down the locker room. With two minutes left to go before the buzzer, I told my parents I'd be right back, then picked up my crutches and hobbled out of the suite to the elevator.

As I was coming into the locker room, the horn sounded, and a moment later, my teammates clomped in.

Sabrina gave me a weak smile, but then she dropped her gaze and focused on taking off her gloves.

"Hey." I touched her face and kissed her lightly. "You okay?"

She pressed her lips together and nodded. "Yeah. I just…" She glared upward as if she could see her father through the ceilings and floors between them. "It's driving me nuts that he's here."

I scoffed. "He probably just wants to be seen as Father of the Year."

"Yeah, right." She dropped her gloves on the bench beside her helmet. "I keep avoiding him. I won't be able to avoid him after this game, though."

That caught me by surprise. "You've been avoiding him?"

She nodded without meeting my gaze. "Sometimes it's easy—gotta talk to reporters, catch a plane, whatever. But a lot of times…" She sighed, shoulders sinking under her pads. "I could see him. I just don't."

"Why not?"

Sabrina shook her head. She picked up her water bottle from her locker stall and took a deep swig, then poured a little down the back of her neck. "I can't decide if I'm afraid he's being insincere… or that he is sincere."

My heart ached for her. I could only imagine that kind of turmoil—wanting her dad's love and approval for so long that when it finally came, she couldn't enjoy it or trust it.

"Hey." I cupped her face in both hands. "Look at me."

She did, and the hurt, anger, and frustration in her eyes were heartbreaking.

"He doesn't matter," I told her. "There are almost twenty thousand people out there and God knows how many watching at home who do think our sport and our players matter. Your mom and siblings are here and cheering for you. My parents are here and cheering for you. Him?" I scowled. "He's already taken way too much away from you." I lifted her chin and kissed her softly. "Whether he's being sincere or not, don't let him ruin all this for you."

Sabrina's eyes welled up, but she smiled. "Yeah. You're right."

"And…" I hesitated.

She arched an eyebrow. "Hmm?"

"Just…" I bit my lip. "Look, take this or leave it, okay? But after the game—you don't have to see him."

She blinked. "What?"

"You're not obligated to see him," I said gently. "Even if he's moving in a good direction for real, and even if you two are going to have a better relationship going forward—it's okay if you focus on you and the team tonight. Give yourself some time to figure out how you feel about him before you're face to face with him, you know?"

She studied me, then slowly relaxed. "That's… I hadn't thought of that. You're right, though." She rolled her shoulders and offered a small smile. "I'll keep it in mind. Hopefully I'll be too busy celebrating with the team to care about him."

I grinned. "That's the spirit."

Sabrina's smile broadened, and she kissed me softly. Then she looked past me, and her brow pinched. Voice so low I barely heard her, she said, "You might want to have a chat with your protégé. I think she's getting up in her head again."

I glanced over my shoulder and found Jamie sitting on the bench on the verge of crying. "Oh. Crap. Yeah, I'll go talk to her." I turned to Sabrina again. "You good?"

"I'm fine." She gave me a little nudge. "Go."

We exchanged smiles. Then I crossed the locker room to Jamie.

She was jittery and off-balance, and now that I was close enough to see her well, there were definitely tears in her eyes this time.

"Hey," I said. "You okay?"

She glanced up at me, and then her face crumpled. "I suck."

"No, you don't." I eased myself down on the bench beside her, biting back a wince when my knee protested. "You're great out there."

Jamie shook her head. "They almost scored on us because of me. "

"It's okay. Anya made the save."

"But she shouldn't have had to." She buried her face in her gloves and groaned. "I can't believe I turned over the puck and—"

"Jamie. Look at me."

She lifted her head, her eyes red and wet.

"We all turn over the puck. The team had like eight turnovers that period, and only one of those was yours." I gestured toward Anastasia and lowered my voice. "Hers did result in a goal against. Yours gave them a scoring chance, but they didn't score. That's what matters."

"Still. It was…" She wiped her eyes. "I don't belong here."

"Yeah, you do." I put a hand on her shoulder. "I promise. I've been watching the whole game and texting Sadie the whole time about any issues I see with defense. Your name hasn't been in any of those texts."

She looked up at me, her eyes begging me to mean that.

"Take a deep breath," I told her. "Have some water. Go out there and play like you did last period, and you'll be fine. I promise."

"But what if I screw up again?"

"It's hockey." I nudged her gently. "We all screw up. All the time. I know it's a ton of pressure, but you wouldn't be here if you hadn't impressed a lot of people along the way."

At that, she smiled weakly, still nervous but rallying. "Thanks. How do you handle the pressure playing at this level all the time?"

I laughed. "Well, fortunately, it's not always the Cup finals."

"Thank God for that," Anya muttered from two seats over.

"Right?" Euli shook her head as she retaped her stick. "I'd be a walking ulcer if we played like this all the time."

Jamie stared at them with wide eyes, but something finally seemed to settle in her, as if she realized at last that she wasn't the only one feeling the pressure.

I clapped her shoulder. "You going to be all right out there?"

Her smile was brighter this time, and she nodded. "Yeah. I'll be fine."

"Okay. Good luck. And don't forget to enjoy it, you know?"

She laughed. "I won't. I promise."

I left her to continue putting her gear back on, and I stopped by Sabrina to wish her luck as well. She seemed to be in better spirits, which was a relief. The last thing a team ever needed—but especially during a playoff elimination game—was their captain out of sorts.

While the team headed back out to the ice, I made my way back up to the owners' box and settled into one of the plush seats again.

Dad leaned over. "How is Sabrina?"

"She's stressed because they keep showing her dad on the screen." I rolled my eyes. "And there's nothing anyone can do about it."

He scowled, but didn't say anything. He didn't have to; I'd told him and Mom all about Doran, and they'd already decided they did not like him. My parents liked everyone, but Doran McAvoy didn't make the cut.

Moments later, the game kicked off again.

It was a hell of a battle. Neither team wanted to give an inch. Defense was strong on both sides, but there were still shots on goal piling up as players fired puck after puck at each net.

By the end of the second, the score was 2-2. With four minutes left in the third, it was 3-2 in Calgary's favor.

I was on the edge of my seat, barely noticing the ache in my leg as I tried to will the puck away from our goal and into Calgary's. At the very least, we had to tie it up; that would keep us alive enough for overtime.

Jamie and Euli relieved Sims and her temporary D partner, joining Sabrina's line in our zone. Sabrina and one of Calgary's skaters battled it out for the puck, and the other skater ended up winning. She spun around to head for our net, but then out of nowhere, Jamie did a viper fast poke-check and stole the puck off her blade.

Before the player even knew what had happened, Jamie whipped around and started barreling toward the neutral zone with Laws and Sabrina on her heels.

A defender got in Jamie's way, hindering her progress across the zone. Sabrina got into the offensive zone before she'd realized Jamie was tied up, and I cringed, afraid that Jamie—who'd untangled herself from the other defender—would cross the blue line and render the play offside.

Should've known she was too smart for that.

Jamie fired the puck across the blue line and right onto Sabrina's tape. Sabrina bodied her way around a defender, then shot the puck at Euli, who tipped it right into the goal.

Everyone roared to their feet as the stadium lit up red. I had to lean on my crutches, but I got up too, screaming my voice raw alongside my parents as my teammates celebrated.

We were still alive. Still a chance to win.

"The Pittsburgh goal!" the announcer's voice boomed over the roaring crowd. "Scored by number forty-three, Euli Eskola. Assisted by number five, Sabrina McAvoy, and number nineteen, Jamie Tucker!"

I pumped my fist and shouted as our teammates piled on the gobsmacked young defender. Jamie's first ever point in the WHPL, and it had come not only in the playoffs, but in the Cup finals. On a decisive goal, too.

This was definitely a night she wouldn't forget.