Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Riley

“ B eautiful,” the cameraman says as he clicks away, that long lens pointed at me. “You’re a powerful dominatrix. You rule everyone around you.”

I arch my back, hold my pen, and look up at the ceiling, pretending I’m a modern-day Cleopatra as he keeps taking photos.

“You’re a ballbuster,” he says as he circles around me, that index finger clicking away. “You’re a boss bitch. You take no prisoners.”

I grin as I tilt my head and switch poses.

This is my first photoshoot and I’m feeling pretty awkward. How do people do this for a living? I’d die.

“Yes,” he says as he unscrews the lens and puts a smaller one on. “Stand by the window and look out at the city. It’s yours. Every block, every person, yours for the taking.”

Geez, where did they get this guy?

I do as he says and stand at the window, looking out of my office at the city spreading out into the distance.

It reminds me of when I was a little girl and stuck in here for hours on end when my father was running the place. I’d stare out the window, making up stories in my head about where all the people were going as my father chewed out the equipment manager or got one of his unruly players in line.

He wanted me there for all of it. Even when I was seven years old, he knew I’d be here one day, taking over the family business. He knew I’d be in charge when he passed and he wanted me to be ready.

I turn to the camera and grin. I am ready. I’m fucking kicking ass.

“Sensational,” the cameraman says as he takes a few more shots and then lowers the camera.

He cycles through the photos on the tiny screen and then whistles low. “Looks like the cover to me,” he says, showing me a picture where I’m staring down the camera, arms crossed. I look powerful in it. I look in control.

My heart starts beating a little harder knowing my face will be the new face of the Cincinnati Vipers.

It’s okay. I’m ready for this.

The truth is, I’ve been in control for the past four years, ever since I turned thirty. That was when my dad got diagnosed with cancer. That’s when he started to move away from the business. He kept himself as the face of the organization while I stayed in the background, doing all the work and making all the decisions.

He died two months ago, and now I’m the face.

This article and cover shoot for Sports Animated Magazine is my coming out party. It’s where I publicly take over as owner of the Cincinnati Vipers.

“I’m all done,” the cameraman says as he starts packing up his lights. “Marsha will take over for the interview portion.”

Marsha walks into my office with a big friendly smile on her face. My assistant Rachel gets us some coffee before leaving us alone.

“What’s it like not only being the sole female owner of a hockey franchise, but being the youngest one as well at only thirty-four years old?” Marsha asks.

I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. “Exciting.”

“Exciting?”

“I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life.”

“Some people say you’re not ready to lead a national sports team.”

“Who are these people?” I ask, staring her down. “Online trolls living in their parents’ basement?”

“Well, for starters, Martin Greyson, owner of the Denver Landslides. He said that you don’t have what it takes to lead an organization.”

That prick. I’ll be sure to tear him a new one at the next owners’ meeting.

“I’ll remind Mr. Greyson that my team beat his the last four times we played each other,” I say with a grin. “Maybe he should worry about his own faltering organization.”

Let him suck on that.

“How did your father prepare you to take over?”

I get a little watery eyed at the memory of my father bringing me to hockey games, both local and professional. He’d always save me a seat beside him, no matter who he was with. He would explain everything to me. Not just about the game, but how he thought. How he worked through problems. I learned so much from him and the wound from his death is still fresh.

I swallow the lump in my throat and fight back my tears with a deep breath.

“My father was an amazing man,” I tell her. “A master of detail. Nothing was overlooked. He taught me everything he knew from the proper temperature of the ice surface—twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit by the way—to the different curves of a hockey stick for each style of play, to how to fire a coach, and most importantly, how to get the best out of your players.”

“How do you get the best out of your players?” she says, looking at me curiously. “Do the young men in the locker room respect a thirty-four-year-old woman telling them the best way to play hockey?”

“The smart ones do,” I say. “Hockey runs in my blood.”

“Some say it’s a man’s sport.”

“I lead by example,” I tell her. “Maybe I can’t hit a slapshot from mid-ice, but I bring a level of tenacity, determination, and detail-oriented execution that speaks for itself.”

“Have the other owners accepted you into their boys’ club? Do they feel comfortable with having a woman owner around?”

They’re going to have to get comfortable with it. They have no idea what’s coming.

In the four years since I took over, I’ve transformed the team. We are in the Stoney Cup finals, so my results speak for themselves.

But no one is going to give me credit for that. I’m not stupid. They’re all going to say it was my father who got the team here. They’re going to say I was brought along for the ride when in reality I was driving the whole time.

My father was a great man and very knowledgeable about hockey, but he was too nice. He let things slip. There wasn’t enough accountability. Players came late for meetings. The locker room often got out of control.

I’m a lot of things, but too nice is not one of them. I’m a ballbuster. I really am a boss bitch, and proud of it.

When I stepped into his shoes and began to assert myself in the organization, I brought accountability with me. I was ruthless. No one showed up for meetings late on my watch. Every detail was looked after mercilessly.

The culture in the building changed. It became a winning culture. And soon enough, even the players and staff who called me a bitch behind my back started to be won over.

The league has no idea what’s happening here. The owners have no idea what’s in store for them.

It’s been four years of working behind the scenes and we’re already playing for the Stoney Cup. Now that I’m unleashed, I’m going to build a dynasty unlike this league has ever seen before.

First, I have to destroy the Hyenas and win that championship for my father, for my city, for my players, and for me.

The Hyenas’ owner, Brantley VanMorgan, is a new player in the field as well. He’s going to be a challenge with the team he built. I wanted to sign Sebastian Kemp in the offseason, but he beat me to it. That’s the first and last time he’s going to win over me. I’ll make damn sure of that.

My mind lingers on the billionaire owner as Marsha asks me another question. I hate that I find him so handsome. I hate how my heart races whenever I see him. He’s the enemy. He has no business making my body act like that.

“Are your Vipers ready for the spotlight?” Marsha asks. “Are they ready to take on the heavy favorites, The San Antonio Hyenas?”

“Let’s go see for ourselves,” I say with a grin as I get up. “They’re on the ice practicing.”

We chat as we walk down the hallway and into the arena.

I grit my teeth and squeeze my hand into a fist when I see the empty ice. The Zamboni is parked in the middle of the rink and the players are hanging out on the bench, half of them on their phones.

Marsha follows me as I march down the steps. My assistant Rachel sees me and comes rushing over.

“Why aren’t they practicing?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you during your interview,” Rachel says nervously. “They’re having problems with the Zamboni engine. A specialized mechanic is on the way.”

“Where’s Tony?” I ask, looking around.

I spot him where they drive the Zamboni in and out, and march down to chew his head off. He’s my equipment manager and should know how to fix this himself.

“Oh shit,” he says, making his phone disappear when he sees me approaching. “We have someone coming! He’ll be here any minute.”

“Any minute?”

“Forty minutes tops!”

I roll my eyes and take off my blazer. Rachel grabs it as I walk onto the ice in my high heels. The boys lower their phones and watch me from the bench.

“Forty minutes of practice time can mean the difference between hoisting the Stoney Cup over our heads and crushing disappointment,” I say as I roll up my sleeves.

“Is she going to fix it?” I hear one of the players whisper.

“No way,” another says.

I climb onto the machine and open the casing.

Like I said, my dad paid attention to detail and he made sure I knew it all, Zamboni maintenance included.

It takes about five minutes of poking around the engine to find the problem. The waterline is clogged. The heater failed and it caused the waterline to freeze.

“Look,” I say as I wave Tony over. “See how the jet is clogged on the burner?”

“Oh shit,” he groans.

“That stops working and the waterlines freeze over. Get me a heating pad. There should be one in the workshop.”

I grab a rag and wipe the clogged jet as he rushes to get it.

My equipment manager should know how to do this for fuck’s sake. Accountability, accountability, accountability. If he can’t do his job properly, I’ll get someone who can.

He comes back with the battery-powered heating pad and I get everything working and the pipes unclogged.

The Zamboni starts up and the boys cheer on the bench as I head back to Marsha, trying not to wobble with my high heels on the ice.

“Hold on,” she says as she pulls out her camera.

“What are you doing?” I ask, looking myself up and down. “I’m full of grime and oil.”

“Exactly,” she says as she takes a few photos. “That’s what I want on the cover. A woman who does it all.”

I don’t know about that.

I just want to win and I’m willing to do whatever it takes.