6. Sabrina

Chapter 6

Sabrina

Training camp finally came to an end, but that meant the real work was just beginning. With the roster established, the focus was now on the season ahead. Practices and off-ice workouts filled our calendars alongside media availabilities and the media days where we did photos and videos for hype montages. The first preseason games were just a couple of weeks away.

It was a ton of work, and the schedule was demanding as hell, but I loved every minute of it. After taking the long, bumpy way to get this career, I was determined to savor all of it, even the tedious and exhausting parts.

Today, we'd had a great on-ice practice, and now everyone was stripping off gear, showering, and dressing. Then we'd go eat before joining our coaches in the auditorium for a team meeting.

After my shower, I pulled on a T-shirt and gym shorts. Then I wiped the towel over my face before tying my hair back into an unruly ponytail. Even now, almost two years after my divorce, I sometimes got a little rush of rebelliousness when I put my hair up like that.

"Would it kill you to just put it back in a normal ponytail?" Ty had groused one morning. "Like, a tidy one instead of… that ?"

"It's just to keep it out of my face," I'd replied. "I don't need to look put together while I'm doing housework."

The way he'd rolled his eyes had made my stomach turn. So did his remark of, "Then let's just hire a damn housekeeper. I shouldn't have to trade my wife's appearance for a clean house."

I'd decided I was too tired to fight with him, so I'd switched to tidier ponytails after that. And we'd hired a housekeeper. And I'd kept doing my hair the way he wanted to because it just wasn't worth the attitude I'd get if I didn't.

Now Ty was gone and I could do whatever I damn well pleased with my own hair. It was a minor thing—a petty one, really—but it felt good, so… fuck it.

"I thought guys liked messy ponytails," my sister had mused a few weeks after I'd left his ass and moved in with her. "What was his damage about it?"

"What was his damage about anything?" I'd muttered. "He didn't like it braided, either. Probably because that was how I used to wear it when I played hockey."

These days, with some time and distance to cool my emotions, I thought that might've been close to the truth. Ty had always resented any reminders that I'd ever played hockey—he hadn't even liked my trophies being on display—and I'd eventually sussed out that it was because those often segued into the fact that I'd played hockey well . He'd barely made it into major juniors, and he'd been undrafted into the men's league. Though he'd eventually been signed and made a name for himself, especially in recent years, his lackluster professional start still bugged him. Sometimes I thought it grated on him to be around or even hear about my dad or brother, because they'd both been first overall draft picks for major juniors and the pros.

Being married to a woman who'd also been selected first overall to her major juniors? Even if women's hockey was barely above beer league? Yeah, I was pretty sure that stung.

In my pettiest moments, I wondered if it bothered him that I was playing at this level now. Maybe I hadn't been drafted—over his dead body would I have declared myself for the draft when the WHPL started—but I'd eventually made it here and was making a name for myself.

Bet that just eats at you, doesn't it, Ty?

The thought made me chuckle. I tried not to dwell on my divorce, and those petty moments of "fuck you, Ty" were less and less common as time went on. But what could I say? They were so satisfying sometimes. And apparently today I was feeling extra catty for some reason.

I let my gaze drift across the locker room, and it landed right on Hamilton, who was pulling on a hoodie.

Ah. Right. That explains my uptick in cattiness.

Meh. Whatever. She and Ty could both eat a dick. I had a life to live and a career to enjoy, and I didn't have time for either of their bullshit.

As we all finished getting dressed, Coach Reilly stood in the middle of the room at the edge of the Pittsburgh Bearcats logo. "Great practice today, ladies. You've got ten minutes before the press comes in. Before we let them in, though…" She smiled. "We've got a little announcement about your team's leadership going forward. Your alternate captains for our inaugural season are Jenny Valentine and Joanna Lawson." She nodded toward me. "And your captain is Sabrina McAvoy."

Some heat bloomed in my face for some reason as my teammates applauded, and someone called out, "Captain Mac!" I'd known about the captaincy already—Coach had told me last night to make sure I was willing to take it on—but it always felt more real when the team knew. I'd worn a C on my jersey before, and I was thrilled to be wearing one again. Especially at this level.

As our teammates congratulated me and our two alternate captains, I wanted to not notice Hamilton's reaction. I wanted to be completely oblivious to her and the subtle eyeroll that the towel she was using on her hair didn't quite hide.

No luck, unfortunately.

Eh. She could live with it. If she couldn't, she could always ask the GM to send her someplace else. Sure wouldn't break my heart if that happened.

Minutes after Coach's announcement, the press descended on the room. Since we were a new team, there was a lot of interest in us from both local networks and the larger syndicated sports networks. I wondered if there would be this much press after this season.

Secretly, behind my media-trained smile, I hoped at least some of them would lose interest. It was no secret that some sports reporters thought about as highly of women's hockey as my father did, and at best, their reporting was laced with the usual misogyny. Asking some players about juggling hockey and motherhood. Zeroing in on stats about our bodies instead of our performance. Even getting our thoughts on the aesthetics of our jerseys and team colors. It was tiresome to say the least, and I was pretty sure that while many were well-meaning, there were a few who were subtly trying to delegitimize the sport.

Like the asshat who started asking Anya Apalkov questions as she toweled off her hair at the stall next to mine.

"Are you concerned about the effect this is going to have on your children?" the guy asked with a perfectly straight face. "With the amount of traveling you'll be doing?"

Anya shrugged, tossing the towel onto the bench behind her. "Of course no one wants to be away from their kids, but it's strange how no one asks my husband the same questions." She looked the reporter right in the eyes. "Colin and the kids will manage while I'm on the road the same way they and I manage when he's on the road."

"So you don't think it's concerning for children to be separated from their mothers as often as players in this league have to travel?"

Laws and I exchanged incredulous looks.

Anya didn't even flinch. "It's no more ideal than it is for the kids of players in the men's league to be separated from their fathers. But it's only for half the year, and we spend extra time with them during the off season." She smiled sweetly, which made her eyes frostier. "And since our teams are very rarely on the road at the same time, they'll have time to spend with just their father." She inclined her head. "That's a good thing, isn't it? Children having time with their dad? At least, when their father is as loving and involved as Colin is?"

The reporter made a sour face, which only made Anya grin.

Laws and I both suppressed snickers. Everyone knew he had kids he rarely saw, so it took some serious audacity to throw stones. Especially at Anya, who didn't have time for anyone's bullshit.

Unsurprisingly, he didn't have any more questions for Anya.

Unfortunately, he turned his sights on me. After the usual questions about how I liked the city, how I was playing, what I thought of my team, and all of that, he said, "Sabrina, walk us through how your family helped you get to where you are now."

I froze, barely keeping my practiced neutral expression in place. "I'm sorry?"

His smile was insincere. "You come from a spectacular hockey dynasty. You had far more opportunities and connections than most in this league or even the men's league. Tell us how your family got you here."

I sensed Laws watching us, but I didn't look to see if she was gaping at his brazenness or keeping an eye on me in case I decided to drop gloves. Anya had exited stage left as soon as he'd moved on to me, which was probably a good thing; she'd have reamed him out over that question, media training be damned.

I did the best I could to pretend this jackass wasn't getting under my skin, and I gave a quiet and hopefully convincing laugh. "The League is pretty strict about how many people can be on the ice at a given time." I gestured at the hallway leading out to the rink. "My family isn't out there practicing, skating, passing, and scoring. I am."

"Of course." The reporter's chuckle was patronizing at best. "But the road to this locker room was certainly different for you than it was for your teammates." He made a sweeping gesture around the locker room. "What was that like?"

The way I was gritting my teeth just then, I wondered if I needed to start wearing my mouthguard during interviews.

Calling on all the media training and rehearsed bullshit answers I possessed, I looked him right in the eye. I smiled just enough to keep the peanut gallery from describing me as "unfriendly" and "prickly" (since they couldn't actually say "bitchy" on most media outlets). "A name might open some doors in this sport—I won't deny that—but open doors don't move pucks. This is a sport where people don't last long if they aren't playing well because one player can drag a whole team down. My name might've put me on some radars, but the way I play hockey is what keeps me here."

From the subtle twist of his lips, he didn't like that answer. And I wasn't entirely happy with it either, mostly because I knew my words would be contorted against me somehow. They always were.

"What about the coaches and training your father was able to help you access?" he asked. "Those obviously took you to a much higher level than if you hadn't had those opportunities."

"The coaches I had were amazing," I said with complete honesty. "My mom also got me some private lessons when I was struggling with skating and stick handling, and those instructors made a world of difference. Without them, and without her driving me to a million practices, lessons, games, and tournaments, I definitely wouldn't be standing here."

I could tell he didn't like that answer any better than the previous one. He wanted me to drop names and gush about everything my father had done to further my career. He wanted a sound bite with Doran McAvoy's name in it.

Sorry, pal, I didn't say out loud. Ask my brother if that's what you want.

"Thank you, Sabrina." The man flashed an irritated smile, then stalked away to pester another of my teammates.

As soon as he was gone, I released a long breath.

Ugh. Couldn't wait to see how that interview came back to bite me in the ass.