4. Sabrina

Chapter 4

Sabrina

Back when my dad had still been a pro, I'd gone with my mom and siblings to watch training camp. I'd dreamed of being out there someday myself—skating with the prospects and veterans, playing my butt off so I'd be noticed by the coaches and wouldn't get cut.

A vivid memory from my childhood was Dad's training camp the year I turned nine. He'd always shit on the idea of me playing hockey. He'd humored my mom letting me play as a little kid, thinking I'd grow out of it before long. He never went to any of my games, though, and he was never interested in talking about hockey with me like he was with my brother. Mom had always tried to dismiss it as him being busy—the regular season was, we all knew, incredibly intense—and she just told me to let it go.

That year, a week or so before training camp, I'd stubbornly decided that he would finally acknowledge me and my hockey. Bad idea, and Mom had tried to gently dissuade me, but I'd finally commanded his attention at dinner one night and boldly announced that my U10 team was going to win our division's trophy that year.

For the couple of seconds he'd stared at me in surprise, I'd been sure I'd finally gotten through. He'd finally noticed me.

But then he'd exhaled hard and turned his scowl on my mother. "What is she still doing playing hockey? It's not a sport for girls."

"I'm good at it!" I'd shot back. "I'm the second line center on a boys' team!"

That had infuriated my father. He'd been enraged that I was taking a coveted space that would be better suited for a boy who had potential to go somewhere in the sport. When I'd refused to back down—when I'd shouted at him because I'd been so mad—he'd sent me to my room.

I hadn't even made it out of the kitchen before he told my mother, "She's not playing any more hockey and that's final."

I'd gone to my room and cried until I almost threw up. Some time later, Mom came in with the reheated remains of my dinner.

"Eat," she'd gently told me. "You've got practice coming up."

"Dad says I have to quit."

"I know." She'd stroked my hair. "But you're not going to quit. Dad doesn't want you to play, and that's not fair, so it's going to be our secret."

It was the most defiant thing I'd ever heard my mother say up until that point. She never told us to keep secrets, and she'd always told us that if a grownup said "this is our secret," that was our cue to come straight to her or Dad and tell them.

Somehow, even at that age, I'd known this was different. That this was her pushing back against my father in a way that kept my dream alive and kept a roof over our heads. My siblings and I weren't stupid—we'd heard him threaten to make her and us homeless if she stepped out of line. While defying him by keeping me registered for hockey probably sounded trivial to most people, Mom knew—and nine-year-old me knew—that it was dangerous.

But she did it anyway.

All these years later, I still wondered sometimes if that was the night she'd finally started gathering up the courage to leave. If she'd begun forming her escape plan during that fraught dinner, or if it had already been in the works by that point. For some reason, I never wanted to ask.

Whatever the case, training camp happened while Mom and Dad were still married and I was still secretly playing for the Orchard Park Tigers. After the first day, while we were having lunch with Dad and some of his teammates, he'd laughed about how I'd taken up hockey.

"There's no point," he'd chuckled. "Piss away money on gear for a few years, maybe get a pitiful scholarship to a college with a women's team, and then never even make a beer league." He'd scoffed. "What a waste."

In the moment, as rage had boiled quietly behind my ribs, I'd hated his teammates for laughing along. Years later, Mom had told me they'd been visibly uncomfortable, but they obviously hadn't wanted to get their captain fired up.

"You didn't notice how they felt," she'd said. "But I did. It gave me a lot of courage that I needed a few months later."

No, I hadn't noticed. It had, however, fueled that fire that made me want to prove myself on the ice. The next two days of training camp, I'd fumed as I'd watched Dad and his team and the prospects through the puck-scuffed glass. I'd vowed to be there one day. To prove to him that I was just as worthy of a place on a professional team as he and my brother were.

Someday, I'd told myself over and over, I'll be on the ice while he's behind the glass. If there isn't a team for me to play on, I'll fucking make one, damn it.

Yeah, I'd cursed even to myself. I was nine, but I was a hockey player. My vocabulary was what it was.

And now, almost two decades later, with a lot of the anger cooled but the determination still burning fiercely in my belly…

I skated out onto the ice to join the Pittsburgh Bearcats for training camp.

I smiled to myself as I glided between players I'd known since my youth and major junior days, and as I watched the young prospects and their awestruck faces. This wasn't my first professional training camp, but I doubted the novelty would ever wear off.

I'd made it. Despite every obstacle that had been laid out in front of me, I'd made it. The pro women's hockey league I'd helped get off the ground was thriving, playing in front of sellout crowds all over North America while multiple cities clamored to be part of the next expansion.

Reporters were crowded in at one end of the rink. Along the side with stands for the spectators, dozens of kids—especially little girls—pressed their faces and signs to the glass, wearing huge grins beneath Bearcat beanies. Several had on jerseys from the team; I'd heard those had all but sold out the minute they'd gone on sale.

Nine-year-old me had imagined breaking into the men's league and finding a place there, but this was even better. We had our own place. Our own teams. Our own fans who were here to see us .

Maybe someday the novelty would wear off, but I hoped it didn't.

And maybe someday, it wouldn't sting so much to remember the one face that would never be in that crowd, cheering me on with all the pride he brought to his son's games.

That thought threatened to sour my mood, so I shook it away. I grabbed a couple of pucks on my stick and tossed them over the glass. There was nothing in the world better than the way a kid's eyes lit up when they caught a puck. I loved how they'd hold it up triumphantly and squeal with joy while snow still tumbled down on them from the puck in their hand.

It just didn't get any better than this.

You don't know what you're missing, Dad.

I wished I didn't care so much that he didn't care. I wished I didn't miss him. Or, well, it wasn't that I missed him. I missed the idea of him. The idea of a supportive dad cheering me on from the stands. I'd had teammates whose dads were so loud, you could sometimes pick out their voices even over the glass.

That would never be my dad. It was a sad, heavy thing to accept, but it was reality. Sometimes I imagined looking over and being startled to see him sitting there after all, beaming with pride. I didn't know what I'd do if that ever happened. Cry? Forget how to play hockey?

It wasn't going to happen, though, so I didn't dwell on it.

Fortunately, hockey was always a good distraction from just about anything, and right then, Coach Reilly blew the whistle. I grinned as I skated over to join my teammates.

Training camp. Here we go.

We were divided into three teams based on our jersey colors—black, white, and gold. For today, the gold team would be on the other rink while black and white stayed in this one and practiced together. Tomorrow, my team—black—would be separated while gold and white were together. Over the next three days, the coaches would put all of us through drills, conditioning exercises, and scrimmages, and from there, the team would be whittled down to twenty: two goalies, twelve forwards, and six defenders.

A lot of the prospects would be heading back to their college or major junior teams, and this was mostly an opportunity for development. They weren't likely to make the roster yet, but there was nothing quite like training with the pros to develop their skills. I envied them that chance; there hadn't been a pro league during my major junior days.

Of the rest of us, some would be sent to the minors while others made the roster. There were a few who were essentially shoo-ins for the roster—especially for the top lines. I'd been told in no uncertain terms that I was on that list, but as far as I was concerned, I was here to prove myself just like everyone else. Nothing bred resentment more than someone who half-assed camp and practice because they knew they were guaranteed a spot. I'd earned my place with the front office and coaching staff, but this was where I had to earn it with my teammates.

And besides, what good did it do for the prospects to practice with veterans who weren't giving their all?

It didn't hurt that I thought practice was fun as hell, even during the chaos that was training camp. The drills were intense and the coaches were demanding, but I enjoyed it. Probably because even after all this time, I still loved playing hockey.

"Mac!" Nora called out to me during a battle drill. I turned toward the sound of her voice, and she fired the puck right onto my tape. One of the opposing players tried to body me around and separate me from the puck, but I shouldered her off me and passed the puck to Nora.

A heartbeat later, someone else checked me into the boards. Hard .

I recovered quickly—it wasn't fun, but she hadn't hit me at full speed, and I was decked out in protective gear—but irritation flared in my chest. What the hell? This was a drill, not a game. Yeah, we were supposed to get physical, but checking like that seemed unnecessary, especially when I didn't have possession.

I looked up as the other player skated off, and my temper surged as I read the name across her lower back.

Hamilton .

Of course it was Lila fucking Hamilton.

I rolled my eyes and continued with the drill. My momentary distraction had only cost me a handful of seconds, but every heartbeat counted in hockey.

And when I found the right second, I was going to pay Hamilton back. This was the third time she'd messed with me since practice had started. Earlier, it had been an unnecessary hip check during a defensive drill. After that, stealing the puck from me when we were supposed to be playing on the same side.

"Oops," she'd said with a smirk after I'd called her out on it.

I'd just rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth, but now I was pissed. First chance I had, it was payback time.

That opportunity came during the next battle drill, and I shamelessly took it. Hamilton had the puck. I could've easily poke-checked it away, but screw that—I slammed her into the glass, then stole the puck.

The muttered "bitch" barely registered because I was halfway across the ice by then, and I just grinned behind my visor as I continued through the drill. I passed the puck to Laws, who shot it into the net behind Anya. Laws and I shared a fist bump, and then we both tapped Anya's pads because this was a drill, we were teammates, and there were no hard feelings.

"I hate you both," she said, laughing behind her mask.

"Nah, you don't." I grinned, skating backwards away from her. "We're just sharpening your skills for the real thing!"

She rolled her eyes and held up her blocker. "You can't see it, but I'm giving you the bird."

I returned the gesture, confident that my bulky glove hid my upraised middle finger from the fans watching us behind the glass.

Coach Reilly blew the whistle, and we all headed to the bench for some water. After we'd caught our breath as much as anyone ever did during hockey practice, Coach called out, "Hams. Mac." She beckoned to Lila and me. "The rest of you…" She nodded toward Lynnie, the offensive coach, who was standing at the whiteboard beside the bench. While our teammates skated over to listen to her lay out the next drill, Lila and I exchanged caustic looks, then skated over to our coach.

A safe distance away from the rest of the team, Coach lowered her voice to an irritated growl. "Is there something going on here that I need to know about?" She flicked her eyes back and forth between us. "Or was that just some overly enthusiastic checking for training camp?"

"Nothing going on," I said with a grin. "Just showing the prospects how we play at this level."

Coach was unamused. "Whatever this is"—she pointed to each of us—"unfuck it, or else one of you is going to be playing someplace else."

Then she skated away to join the rest of the team by the whiteboard, leaving me alone with Lila. I wasn't sure what Coach meant by "someplace else"—if that was a threat to send one of us to the minors or to trade us out of Pittsburgh. Whatever the case, I wasn't interested in going anywhere else, least of all because Lila Hamilton had her nose out of joint over something.

I turned to Lila and asked under my breath, "You have a problem, Hams?"

"No problem at all," she growled back.

"Oh, yeah?" I nodded toward the boards where she'd checked me. "So what was that all about?"

"Exactly what you said." She smirked and shrugged. "Showing the prospects how we play at this level." Then she added a more acidic, "And making sure they know we don't handle the nepotism babies with kid gloves."

Before my jaw had finished falling open, she was skating away, leaving me standing there with white hot anger roiling in my chest.

That was what this was all about? Seriously? Ugh. For God's sake. It was bad enough everyone and their goddamned mother in the media thought I was only here because of nepotism. I didn't need one of my own teammates fueling that bullshit.

A knot wound beneath my ribs as I scanned the ice, taking in the sight of my teammates, from those I'd played with before to the ones I'd only recently met.

How many of them agreed with Lila and the press?

How many of them thought I didn't actually belong here?

Goddammit.

And how many of them would turn on me once Lila and the reporters dripped enough poison in their ears?

Renewed fury surged inside me. I'd already been less than thrilled with Lila's frosty attitude toward me. Now I was pissed that her bullshit might infect the rest of the team, and even more so when I realized my focus was gone. She was screwing with my concentration. She had no right to live rent-free in my head, and I wasn't going to put up with it.

I joined my teammates and took a knee in the back row, and I fumed throughout the offensive coach's explanation of our next drill and its objectives. When she dismissed us to set up for the drill, a few players did some slow skating around the ice just to keep their legs loose. Not unusual.

While they did that, I found a puck and headed for the untended goal, and I slapped that puck hard into the back of the net.

Fuck Lila Hamilton. I'd earned my place here, and I was going to earn my place on the roster. On the top six. Hell, I wanted the top line . I was going to prove to Lila Hamilton, to my father, to my ex-husband, and to everyone else who thought I'd come here on Easy Street that I deserved to wear this sweater.

Nepotism my ass .