7. Lila

Chapter 7

Lila

"How's your knee?" Faith grimaced as she watched me settling onto the couch with a pile of icepacks. "Are you going to be okay for the game?"

"I'll be fine." I started arranging icepacks over, under, and around my knee. "It's just sore."

She scowled but didn't say anything further, and she went into the kitchen while I continued getting situated.

Truth was, my knee was bothering the hell out of me today. And yes, I was worried about how it was going to affect me on the ice. What I should've done was grab one of the trainers after practice this morning and get their input. Maybe I needed some more PT. Or maybe some more anti-inflammatories.

But I was afraid to ask the trainers or even hint that there was any discomfort because I was afraid of getting benched. Sometimes trainers could err on the side of too much caution, and they'd park my ass on the sidelines just because there were some aches and twinges.

I wasn't letting them bench me this time. Our home opener was tomorrow. I didn't care what my knee had to say about it—there was no way in hell I was missing that game. I wasn't giving anyone any more reason to insist I needed to hang it up or that I was dead weight to my team.

If I had to grit my teeth through the game… fine. But I was playing.

And if you push it too hard and mess up your knee again, then what?

Closing my eyes, I exhaled. That was the balance I was still learning to strike—pushing hard because I was a professional athlete while not pushing so hard that I caused more damage. Especially damage that couldn't be repaired.

"Your knee is only going to tolerate so much surgery," the orthopedic surgeon in Omaha had warned. "I can keep fixing it until we're blue in the face, but there will come a point where it won't heal well enough."

"Well enough to play hockey?"

He'd scowled. "There will come a point where you will always have some pain and some mobility issues. The point at which you can no longer play hockey will come much, much sooner."

I wasn't at that point now. I couldn't be.

At least training camp was over. It was always a grueling week, and I was never sad to see it end. Since then, we'd been ramping up through the preseason. Going forward, my life would be dominated by hours of intense practice, off-ice workouts, and all after a summer spent training, but none of that was as demanding as training camp. So that was all it was; my body was tired from that hellish week. I was still getting back into the groove after rehab, and ever since my injury, my knee had always taken a little longer to get with the program.

I'll be fine. I nudged one of the icepacks against an especially achy spot right along my meniscus. Just need to do some more stretching and baby it a little more. I'll be fine .

As the ice did its thing along with the anti-inflammatories I'd taken earlier, I tried to focus on anything but the annoyingly persistent aches and pains. The best distraction? My phone, of course.

I checked my various socials and responded to some emails and DMs. A lot of my hockey friends were in preseason right now too, same as me, so there weren't as many messages or posts from them. As energized as we all were about the new season—especially those of us on newly-minted expansion teams—everyone was tired, too. Or spending time with their families, since there would be a lot of long hours and traveling over the next several months.

After I'd gone through socials and messages, I flipped over to some sports news sites. I was curious if anything had come of the allegations against one of the head coaches in the men's league; he'd been accused of bribing and even blackmailing officials last season. Two officials had already been barred from the League, banned from any games or events, and fined within an inch of their lives, so they'd sung like canaries about who they'd been taking bribes from. A GM and two owners had already confessed. The head coach was the last holdout, insisting he was innocent and would never do such a thing.

According to the first article that popped up, though, he'd not only been busted, he'd been stupid enough to commit his bribery via emails and texts. Yeah. He was done . What a dumbass.

I was about to close the app when another headline caught my eye.

In an instant, my stomach curdled with irritation. I should've continued closing the app, but I couldn't stop myself, and I tapped the link.

Daughter of Hockey Legend Balks at Questions About Nepotism

Bearcats' center reluctant to acknowledge role of legendary father in pro hockey comeback

PITTSBURGH – The daughter of Buffalo superstar Doran McAvoy appeared to shy away from questions regarding her father's influence on her own hockey career.

With the sport all but baked into her DNA, questions about the McAvoy legacy are certainly inevitable. Her elder brother, St. Louis winger Mark McAvoy, is regularly effusive about his father's support, expressing gratitude for access to the best coaches, trainers, players, and equipment from the time he was small.

Sabrina McAvoy, captain and star center of the WHPL expansion team in Pittsburgh, is far less willing to gush about the influence of Doran McAvoy.

I stopped reading there. I wasn't at all surprised she didn't want to talk about it. Who wanted to admit out loud that they'd had an escalator while the rest of us had to crawl up the stairs? Yeah, Sabrina was good, but she wouldn't be half the player she was without all the advantages her father and her name had bestowed upon her. She knew it, her teammates knew it, the fans knew it, but God forbid she admit it out loud.

Maybe she just didn't understand how much other people had to struggle. I couldn't imagine being that oblivious, though. Even the most privileged players had to at least notice some of their teammates wearing gear held together by duct tape and prayers. Or all the fundraisers for those of us whose families couldn't afford gear or fees. Or how many of us squeezed in part-time jobs because no matter how much our parents tried, there was only so much money to dog-ear for hockey. The rich and middle class kids may not have fully grasped how hard that was. They may not have understood just how much some of us had struggled to hold on to hockey, or realized that some incredibly talented players had been forced to quit hockey for reasons that had nothing to do with injuries or talent.

But they had to at least have noticed that some of us weren't playing on Easy mode. Right?

Or maybe they just thought riding Daddy's money and influence to the top was their birthright, and that they'd earned their spot by being lucky enough to be born into that kind of family. While the rest of us were so grateful for our parents' sacrifices we could cry, maybe the genetic elite were satisfied that they deserved to be where they were. Who knew?

Well, whatever the case… Must be nice.

I shook myself and refocused on my phone, and that was when I realized there was a video embedded in the article, and from the thumbnail, I recognized Sabrina. She was still in her gear, dark hair swept up into a messy ponytail, and I refused to dwell on how unreasonably attractive she was like that.

I was curious about the interplay with the reporter, though, so I tapped Play.

"Sabrina," the reporter said, "walk us through how your family helped you get to where you are now."

Ooh, yes, I thought. Do tell.

It was hard to miss the moment Sabrina went on the defensive. The faint twitch of her lips, the subtle tightness in her jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes—they weren't super obvious, but they were there, as was the note of irritation in her voice.

I didn't keep watching, though. I just rolled my eyes, shut off the video, dropped my phone on the end table, and sighed as I adjusted the icepacks on my knee.

Cry me a fucking river, Princess. How dare anyone call you out for riding Daddy's name to the top.

I didn't know why she bothered denying it. The way she'd jettisoned her ex's name and slapped her dad's back on when she decided to come out of retirement? Yeah, that wasn't obvious or anything.

"Ooh, I know that face." Faith came into the room, and she watched me as she settled on the other end of the couch with a mug of coffee between her hands. "You're pissed about something."

I didn't know if that was the right word, but I didn't gainsay her. "There's an article about Sabrina on one of the sports sites." I rolled my eyes. "Something about how she refuses to acknowledge how her dad helped her get where she is."

"Ooh." Faith put her coffee on a coaster and picked up her phone. "Which site?"

I sent her the link. She opened it, and after a couple of taps, she was peering at her screen with a furrowed brow, her eyes flicking back and forth as she read the text. When she'd finished, she made a disgusted face. The words, "I know, right?" were on the tip of my tongue, but what Faith said caught me by surprise: "Did you notice how long it took for the reporter to actually mention her by name?"

I blinked. "What?"

She gestured at my phone. "Read it again. The article is about her, but her name doesn't actually appear until—what? The third paragraph?"

That couldn't be right.

I opened the article again and reread it. Sure enough, Sabrina was referred to by everything except her own name until the third paragraph. "Wow." I put the phone aside again. "That's… weird."

"I know, right?" Faith rolled her eyes. "Can't imagine why she doesn't like talking about her dad's impact on her career."

"But… he did have an impact on it."

"Sure, but like, your parents helped you a lot, right? They scrimped and saved and sacrificed so you could play hockey. You probably wouldn't have been able to learn the sport, never mind get here, if they hadn't done any of that."

"Right. And I never miss an opportunity to show them and everyone else how grateful I am for that."

"Of course. But imagine if everyone talked about them instead of you. Like if every article about you was focused on them."

I made a face. "Eww."

"Right? So she probably gets tired of that, too." Faith held up her phone again. "Especially when reporters write articles that make it sound like they're writing about her dad while she's an afterthought."

"Damn. Yeah, that would probably make me feel scummy too."

"But you still don't like her."

"No, I don't," I admitted without hesitation. "I get it if she doesn't like reporters using stories about her as a chance to kiss her dad's ass. But I mean, the least she can do is own the advantages she's had."

"Maybe." Faith didn't sound convinced.

"Like, yes, she's a great player," I went on. "No one can deny that."

"You'd like to, though." My friend's comment was a prod, but not quite an accusation. "Wouldn't you?"

I had to think about that for a moment. I couldn't really argue with her. I wanted Sabrina to be a great player because she was one of my teammates, but I also hated that she was a great player because everyone acted like the rest of us were just extras in a show about her. Was I jealous of all the advantages she'd had, from mountains of money and access to the cream of the coaching crop right on down to her literal DNA? Yeah. I was. And maybe if she'd just own that, I'd…

Probably not feel any different.

I sagged against the couch. "Am I… Am I wrong about her?"

Faith pursed her lips. "Maybe?" She fixed her bright blue eyes on me. "But maybe that's not the question you should be asking yourself."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmhmm." She studied me, then gently asked, "Why are you so determined to hate her?"

I pushed out a harsh breath. "I don't know. Maybe I just hate feeling like a superstar diva's backup dancer."

Faith laughed softly. "Yeah, that would suck. But it kind of seems like that's an issue with how everyone else regards her. You haven't said anything about how she acts."

"Besides the part where she refuses to own where she came from?" I asked dryly. "I don't know. It's just—whenever they talk about her, it's all about her dad, her brother, and her ex, and she just avoids it or glares at them. Then they gush about everything she does on the ice, but no one says shit about her mistakes, and she doesn't exactly argue with them."

"They do talk about her mistakes, though."

I eyed her. "Where?"

She shrugged. "Anyone who doesn't like Doran McAvoy, his team, or the existence of professional women's hockey."

Exhaling hard, I leaned back against the couch cushions. "Okay, but even then, they're just hating on her because they hate someone else. Women's hockey commentators and reporters love the sport, but they'll criticize any of us. Like, how many times did they show the replay of me crashing into Anaheim's net last season?" I flailed a hand at my phone. "But when she fucks up and costs her team a critical game—crickets."

Faith seemed to consider that. "I mean, maybe they're just afraid to cross Doran McAvoy."

"I guess? He is kind of a dick."

"Understatement," she muttered.

God, wasn't that the truth. There were generational talents in this sport who were startlingly humble and kind people. It barely even seemed to register with them that they were superstars. They were the players who happily and patiently signed things and took photos with fans, even when it was pouring down rain after practice or when they were feeling like shit after a bad game.

One megastar had been asked to grant a wish for a Make-A-Wish kid. All the kid wanted was a chance to skate with him. The star had pulled out all the stops, getting the entire team to stay after practice for a scrimmage where she was his linemate. Whenever the star was in the kid's hometown after that, he'd take the family out to dinner or to an amusement park, and he'd made two trips out to visit her in the hospital.

That was just how a lot of players were—they loved hockey, they loved fans, and they were genuinely kind, down-to-earth people. Even the guys who were absolute thugs on the ice could turn around and be near saints in their daily lives.

Doran McAvoy was a spectacularly talented hockey player, but he was also a notorious bag of dicks both on and off the ice. He was one of those talents who knew he was gifted and knew he was a star, and he didn't let anyone forget it.

A former teammate of his had once made a comment to a reporter that their embarrassing loss that night had been as much a team effort as their wins. "We all fell apart," I remembered him saying. "All of us. It just wasn't a good game for anyone in a Buffalo jersey."

Somehow, Doran had taken that personally, interpreting it as a cowardly, underhanded swipe. As if the player had been specifically calling him out for singlehandedly losing the game. To this day, people whispered that Doran was the reason that player had been traded to Los Angeles a month later. Depending on who you asked, that was either because the front office had wanted to separate them, or because Doran had stomped into his GM's office and demanded it.

So, hell. Maybe Faith was on to something when it came to the press treading lightly about his daughter's play.

"Hmm. You could be right." I played with the edge of one of the icepacks on my knee. "Maybe all the reporters are afraid to say anything negative about Doran McAvoy's daughter."

"Wouldn't you be?" Faith asked. "I'd be terrified to let a hot mic catch me even suggesting she was having a bad hair day."

"Yeah. I get that. I still don't like it. Nobody in this league or any other should be immune to criticism because they or their famous daddy might throw a fit." I shook my head and looked at Faith. "The commentators and reporters should be able to talk about her as much as they talk about the rest of us. Good and bad."

"No argument there." She inclined her head. "But is it her fault if they won't?"

I bristled. "No. But she benefits from it, and she doesn't push back against it at all. She's just like him—he refused to credit his teammates for anything, and she refuses to credit him . "

"She does push back, though." Faith gestured with her own phone. "Because that interview didn't sound like—"

"Of course she pushes back against the nepotism rumors," I grumbled. "But does she lift a single finger about them talking about her like she's God's gift to hockey?" I snorted derisively. "She doesn't seem to mind that part."

Faith studied me silently.

I fidgeted. "What?"

"Still just trying to figure out why you're so bound and determined to hate her. I mean, even if nepotism got her in the door, you can't argue with her ability on the ice."

"I can resent the shit out of her for having access to every imaginable advantage to getting that good." I huffed a bitter laugh. "Bet she never had to work at a rink's concession stand just to earn enough to buy thirdhand gear."

Faith quirked her lips, then shrugged. "Okay, sure, I guess. But however she got here, she plays her ass off and she's earned the right to stay here."

I couldn't argue with that. I really couldn't. But I also couldn't deny how much it still irked me that Sabrina McAvoy was here at all.

Apparently sensing that I was still annoyed, Faith reached over and patted my arm. "I know you're not her biggest fan. But you two are teammates."

"Is it wrong to hope the trade deadline resolves that?"

She laughed dryly. "I mean, maybe? But that's not until March. That's a long time to be hissing and spitting with someone on your team."

Closing my eyes, I groaned. "I know. I know. And I… God, I guess I should just be thankful she's a forward. If we had to be D partners…"

"I don't think any defensive coach worth her salt would put you two on the same pair."

"No," I muttered. "They'd put her on the top pair and drop me down to the second." I rolled my eyes. "That's what happened on my last team, remember?"

"Oh, I remember."

I kind of felt bad for the amount of time I'd spent texting Faith to vent about the situation in Omaha. It hadn't been the same as with Sabrina, but it was similar enough to make my teeth grind. I was a way better defender than Amy Voorhees, but much like Sabrina, she came from hockey royalty. No one dared put her on the second or third pair, not even when her stats barely warranted a place above the minors. And since she and I both played left-handed, we couldn't be paired together, so I was bumped down to the number two spot despite earning that top billing.

Not that I was even a little bit bitter. Especially since it had also happened in major juniors. And in U16. All through my hockey years, there had always been either someone's princess or a coach's "rising star" son taking a slot that should've gone to a player with better stats, not the one with the impressive pedigree.

Faith glanced at me again. "Look, I know you're frustrated. After all the crap with Amy, and getting passed over on your other teams, anyone would be. But Sabrina didn't do any of that to you, and she is a good player. She's incredible. And she's not knocking you down on the roster."

"I know." I dragged my fingers through my hair and sighed again. "It's not her fault. And I won't pretend she's not a great player." I paused. "Sometimes I think that makes it worse."

"How so?"

"Because how much better would so many other players be if they'd had access to everything she did?" I threw up my hand. "You know, if they didn't have to play in secondhand gear that didn't fit and spend their youth days hearing that they shouldn't be playing on the boys' team?"

"You're not wrong," Faith said. "I always envied the kids—the boys and the girls—who could get the good gear and didn't have people trying to chase them out." She glanced at me again. "But the ones who did have the good gear and the great coaches—it's not their fault, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," I whispered. "It just sucks seeing them take all the top spots when there are so many players out there with raw talent and drive who just didn't have the support they needed."

"I get that. I do. But you did get to this level. You did overcome everything and earn your spot." She shot me a look. "Don't let someone else ruin it just by being here. She's on your team, but so are you, you know?"

I nodded. She didn't keep pushing; she knew me well enough to know when she'd made her point. She was right, too, but man, it was going to be a struggle. It was hard not to resent someone who took the easy road to the top of the game, especially while the rest of us were hidden away in her shadow.

Still, I had to get it together. As much as I hated the idea, I would have to figure out how to get along with Sabrina. Or at the very least, coexist with her. That honestly didn't sound too hard. For as much as her very presence irritated me, I'd had teammates in the past who I didn't get along with, and the nature of the sport meant all our animosity stayed off the ice. We had to concentrate on too many things happening at once—too many bodies and sticks moving too fast in too many directions—to devote more than one or two brain cells to rivalries.

Even rivalries between opposing players faded somewhat while the clock was running. We might grab an opportunity to check someone harder than necessary, and there'd be some aggressive chirping, but hockey moved too fast for more than fleeting bumps and snark.

Unless of course someone took a cheap shot at a teammate. Then all bets were off, and that was usually when fights broke out.

If someone took a cheap shot at Sabrina—a trip, a dirty check, an uncalled high stick—I'd probably answer the bell. I'd either check the offending player hard enough to make her rethink her life choices or, if things got really heated, drop gloves with her. As much as Sabrina pissed me off, she was still my teammate, and nobody played dirty against someone wearing my team's sweater. Not even if that someone was Sabrina.

And hey, the WHPL allowed both checking and fighting, unlike our youth and major junior leagues. No more of this "checking is a penalty" and "no fighting ever for any reason" garbage that the men's league never had to worry about. We could throw gloves just like they could. Fighting was still a penalty, same as it was for the guys, but it wasn't an automatic ejection or suspension anymore.

As frustrated as I'd been before training camp had even ended, I could see myself taking out some aggression once the season started. I was a defender, after all.

Maybe this would be the season I got into my first professional fight.

I just hoped it wasn't because I was coming to Sabrina McAvoy's defense.