8. Sabrina

Chapter 8

Sabrina

I was right that the interview came back to bite me. Sooo shocking. Everyone in this sport was determined to kiss my dad's ass, and they hated that I didn't partake.

Daughter of Hockey Legend Balks at Questions About Nepotism.

McAvoy Dynasty Hockey Talent may be Generational, but Humility is Not

Is McAvoy's Daughter Good Enough to be this Arrogant?

The words "ungrateful" and "spoiled brat" had made it into a few articles, and I'd had plenty of DMs and social media comments putting me in my place. Everyone was committed to the narrative that I was nothing more than an extension of my dad's legacy, and they were determined to make me acknowledge that. Whenever I pushed back or refused to fawn all over good old Dad, it rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.

Fortunately, the Bearcats' PR department didn't give me any grief for it.

"No one would bat an eye if someone from the men's league said the same damn thing." Marci, our PR director, rolled her eyes. "The minute our players are anything other than cheerful and ladylike, they lose their minds. Like, have they never met hockey players?"

I laughed, relieved that she got it. "Right? I'm, uh…" I cleared my throat. "Sorry for the extra headache, though."

Marci waved her hand. "Trust me—this is nothing. And I mean, aside from the people who have to give you crap, I think most people probably watched that interview and thought the same thing I did—you're an athlete who's busted your ass, and you're over people trying to give that credit to someone else."

I let my shoulders sag a little, and I exhaled. "God, I hope you're right. There's just always so much…" I shook my head.

"Oh, I know. But put it in perspective. Any time the League announces an exhibition game in a city that might be getting an expansion team, there are dozens—hell, hundreds —of comments from people about how stupid it is. Women's hockey is too slow. Nobody cares about women's sports. All the comparisons about how their bottom-tier beer league team could easily beat them." She made another dismissive gesture. "You get the idea. Read all that shit, and it's really demoralizing, you know? Sounds like nobody wants us. But then game day comes, and the stands are packed."

"Huh. I hadn't thought about that, but you're right."

Marci smiled. "Trust me. You're just hearing a lot of noise from trolls and from journalists who are desperate to be relevant. Meanwhile…" She picked up her tablet and thumbed to a spreadsheet, then showed it to me. "McAvoy jerseys are flying off the rack so fast, the team store can't keep them in stock. And I don't mean the Doran McAvoy jerseys."

"The Doran—" I craned my neck at the tablet. "We're selling my dad's jersey?"

She rolled her eyes. "Someone in marketing thought it would be a good idea."

"Of course they did," I muttered.

"But I don't think they're going to keep stocking them." Marci pointed to a line on the spreadsheet. "Only four have sold. Meanwhile, yours are backordered in all but two sizes."

I peered at the screen, and sure enough, all but one child size and one adult size were backordered, and the two sizes still in stock had fewer than ten available. Dad's jersey, on the other hand, still had ample inventory in every size.

I laughed quietly as I handed back the tablet. "Don't tell my dad."

"Oh, no one is going to say a word." She tucked the tablet under her arm. "But I'll be very surprised if we're still carrying Doran McAvoy jerseys come Christmas."

It was probably petty as hell to be this satisfied about that.

Oh well. Apparently I was that petty.

"All right, ladies." Coach Reilly scanned the room, locking eyes with each of us in turn. "This is an historic evening for Pittsburgh and for women's hockey. We've got a packed house. This is a sports town, and they're turning out in droves for us just like they have for the men's football, baseball, and hockey teams." She smiled broadly. "So let's give them the level of hockey they came to see."

Everyone in the room cheered, all of us exchanging fist bumps on the bench.

Of course, Lila's gaze snagged on me for a second, and her expression instantly soured.

So did my mood.

I broke eye contact, but not before letting her see me roll my eyes and laugh. Then I bumped shoulders with Val, who laughed, and we carried on with putting on our gear and getting psyched for the game.

Yeah, I see you , I hoped Lila heard. And you are not getting under my skin .

Moments later, we were heading out onto the ice for warmups.

A lot of people had told me before I came here that Pittsburgh loved sports. As Coach Reilly had said, this was a sports town, through and through, just like Seattle.

As we hit the ice, the fans did not disappoint. People were still coming in, but there was a dense crowd along the glass all the way around our end of the arena. People held up signs, banged on the glass, waved, cheered—I could play hockey until I was ninety and this would never get old. Especially the part where there were dozens and dozens of little girls smiling so big their faces must've hurt.

One redhead who couldn't have been more than seven or eight held up a sign with Anya's number and the words, I'M A GOALIE TOO!

Beside her, a Black girl of about ten watched us in awe as she gripped a sign reading, I'M GOING TO BE A BEARCAT SOMEDAY!

I tossed pucks over the glass to both of them, loving the way their eyes lit up. They dropped their signs and clutched the pucks, turning around and waving them at their parents as if they couldn't believe it.

I tapped my stick against the glass, gave them each a fist bump, and continued my warmup routine.

It really didn't get any better than this.

I was a little in awe myself. This was my second season in the League, but that awestruck feeling was still here. Still nearly as intense as it had been when I'd taken the ice in Seattle a year ago. It hadn't been all that many years since a pro women's league had been a fantasy. A league that was this big and this popular? Pure fiction.

And for me personally, the chance—the freedom —to join that league? To be a professional hockey player at this level? A pipe dream.

But here I was. Here we were. Somehow, we'd all made it to this. Somehow, I'd made it out from under everything that had tried to keep me away from the sport I loved.

People still asked me why I'd teared up during warmups at my first game in Seattle. They were going to be asking the same thing about tonight, that was for sure. What could I say? It was hard not to get emotional when I was finally living the dream I'd had to fight so hard for.

After warmups, my teammates and I trooped back to the locker room. Since this was opening night, we'd all be introduced before puck drop, so after the Zambonis had finished resurfacing the ice, we lined up in the tunnel for our intros. As captain, I'd go out last, so I took my place at the back of the line.

Lila clomped past me, and our eyes locked for a second—just long enough for her sneer to make my hackles go up.

As she continued toward her own place in line, I rolled my eyes and dug my nails into the insides of my gloves.

She wasn't going to get to me. She wasn't going to ruin this night, this season, this team—nothing. Whatever her problem was, she could get the hell over it.

The announcements started. In numerical order (aside from me and the two alternate captains, who would be introduced last), the announcer called out each player by their hometown, number and name.

"From Boston, Massachusetts, number fifty-three—Simone Yates!"

"From Kazan, Russia, number sixty-one— Anastasia Ilyasov!"

The names went on, each player skating out to the cheers of the crowd before taking her place around the circle at center ice.

"From Bethesda, Maryland, number seventy-two—Lila Hamilton!"

My stomach knotted at the sound of her name. I refused to shift my gaze away as she skated out, and I made sure to keep my expression pleasant. The last thing I needed was a camera catching me scowling over Lila. I could only imagine the fur that would fly if some reporter wrote an article like "Rivalry Brewing Between Sabrina McAvoy and Lila Hamilton?"

Yeah, right. More like, ‘Rivalry Brewing between Doran McAvoy's Daughter and Lila Hamilton.'

That thought almost had me letting my distaste into my expression, but I schooled my face.

The alternate captains were announced. And then…

"From Buffalo, New York, your captain, number five—Sabrina McAvoy!"

The roar from the crowd intensified so hard, I swore it almost knocked me off my skates. Dazed, I skated to my place in the circle. I sensed Lila's icy stare as I skated past her, but I ignored her. This wasn't her night. This was our night. If she wanted to be miserable, that was on her.

The announcer's voice boomed over the crowd, "Please welcome—for their inaugural Women's Hockey Professional League season—the Pittsburgh Bearcats!"

The crowd kept cheering. Loud. Long. On their feet.

Listen to them, Dad, and tell me this sport doesn't matter.

After the introductions, we saluted the crowd.

The starting lineup was announced, and then there were the national anthems, and then it was finally time for what everyone came for— hockey .

I skated up to center ice for the faceoff. On the other side of the dot was Bea Olsson, and we exchanged brief grins. We'd been teammates more than once over the years, and we'd roomed together at the Olympics.

Roomed together. Yeah. That's what the kids were calling it these days.

And it took me until I was in my late twenties to figure out I was a lesbian?

I shook that train of thought away as the ref held the puck between us. I could reminisce later.

Right now? Hockey.

The puck dropped. Bea was lightning fast on faceoffs, but I was faster. I snatched the puck away and immediately passed it to Laws, and we were barreling toward Montreal's zone.

Laws passed it to me, and I forced my way between a pair of defenders, keeping the puck securely against my blade even as they tried to steal it. A sharp smack-smack of stick on ice told me one of my teammates was calling for the puck, and I glanced her way a second before I passed to her. A Montreal forward zipped in between us and grabbed it, but Sims shoulder-checked her out of the way before snapping the puck back to me.

I almost lost the puck to an aggressive defender, but I managed to get away from her, and that was when I realized Laws was at the goal, standing just outside the crease. Our eyes locked for a split second, and I sent her the puck.

The goalie reacted, but she went low.

Laws chipped the puck up and over the netminder's shoulder.

The red light came on, and the goal horn was almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd as they shot to their feet.

We all crushed Laws in hugs, then skated toward the bench for fist bumps.

Barely a minute into the first period of our first game, the Pittsburgh Bearcats were on the board with our first ever goal.

And I couldn't wait for our next one.

Everyone in the locker room was exuberant after the game was over. We'd won our first game, and the way we were celebrating, we might as well have just clinched the Cup.

"The Pittsburgh Bearcats are undefeated!" Laws shouted. "The only team in the League that's never been beaten!"

We all laughed at that. It was technically true, especially since the only other expansion team to play tonight had lost, and the other four didn't play until tomorrow. So… yeah, we were technically undefeated as a franchise. Might as well celebrate that while it lasted.

Much like our undefeated streak undoubtedly would be, though, my good spirits were short-lived. The locker room was packed with people. Not just staff, and media along with players and their spouses and kids, which was normal. Most of my teammates' parents, siblings, and even a few grandparents had come to the home opener. There were so many people, staff had to leave some out in the hallway and carefully manage how many went into and out of the locker room. As players finished showering and dressing, they joined their families in the hall, and the whole ice level of the arena probably echoed with the sounds of excitement and celebration.

It reminded me of the locker room after we'd medaled at World Junior Women's and at the Olympics. Or after our major junior playoff games. Or my youth team's championship games. So many supportive family members. So much love.

I had that love and support, too. Zoe and my mom were here. My brother had texted me before and after the game; he was playing in Los Angeles tomorrow night, so he couldn't make it to mine. I understood that, and I had always appreciated his support.

But just like every major game since my U8 days, I was painfully aware of who wasn't here. Who refused to be here.

I wasn't surprised—he'd needed his arm twisted to watch me play at the Olympics, after all, and even then he'd only given in for the sake of his own reputation. It still hurt just as much as it had the first time, though.

I tried to ignore that rock in the pit of my stomach. Tried to focus on being happy we'd won, and on celebrating with my mom, sister, and teammates. I loved that Mom and Zoe were always here for me. That they'd supported me all this time, even when they'd had to do it in secret. And I appreciated Mark's love and support even when he couldn't be in the same place as me.

I couldn't lie, though—nights like this were hard.

Especially because there were so many dads here.

Anya's husband and kids were crowded around her locker stall along with both her parents and her in-laws. Her father-in-law looked as proud as if his own daughter had been out there tonight. Sims's stepfather, who'd been her dad since she was six, was on crutches after a recent ankle surgery, and he'd still almost knocked her over with a hug.

And then there were Lila's parents. Not just their presence and their obvious love and support for their daughter but for as long as I'd played alongside her, I'd always envied the way she lit up whenever they were there. They always beamed with pride whether we'd won or lost, and Lila never smiled like that except when they were around.

Every damn time, her dad would come into the locker room, wrap her in a huge bear hug no matter how much she stunk after a game, and tell her he was proud of her. If we'd lost, he'd reassure her that she'd played her best, and that the next game would be better. And if we'd won… Well, he was the reason I understood when people described someone as being so happy they could burst.

It made me so jealous I could barely see straight.

Just like I had so many times from U8 on up to the Olympics, I couldn't help asking myself that same awful question:

Why can't my dad love me like that?

I took a deep swig of water to push back the lump trying to rise in my throat, and I turned to my mom and sister. "We should go eat. Before they run out of the good stuff."

Mom laughed. "They make plenty, don't they?"

"Well, yeah, for the team and staff." I gestured around. "Not this many people."

"Mmhmm. I'm pretty sure the cooking crew knows to anticipate…" She mimicked my gesture.

"Okay, fine. How about we go eat before I start chewing off my arm?"

"Uh-oh." Zoe grimaced theatrically. "Don't want Beans getting hangry."

At least that got us out of the locker room. The lounge wasn't much better, but eating and talking with my mom and sister kept me distracted from everything else.

Well, mostly.

The celebratory vibe had followed us in here. The whole room thrummed with excitement and elation, which just made my food sit in my stomach like a rock.

It didn't help when one of the reporters swung by our table. She was getting interviews and clips of players with their families, and she promptly lost interest in me after she realized my dad wasn't here.

As she walked away, I sat back and picked at my food. "Never fails, does it?"

Mom frowned and shook her head. "I wish I could tell you that'll go away, but…"

Zoe made a face. "So nice of them to want to celebrate a man in an article about women's hockey."

That got humorless laughs out of both Mom and me.

Right then, Lila and her parents strode in. She was laughing at something her dad was saying, and I almost fumbled with my fork.

There was that bolt of jealousy of course, but also something much more pleasant. Yeah, I envied how happy she was—how loved she was by both of her parents—but that relaxed, perfect smile was just…

Oh my God.

Her eyes flicked toward me, and her mood dampened ever so slightly. She quickly jerked her gaze away.

I dropped mine to my plate.

My dad wasn't here and he never would be.

The most beautiful woman on my team couldn't look at me without scowling.

Well, at least the game had been fun, because the rest of this evening was depressing as hell.