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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 actuallysay“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 howthatinterview came back to bite me in the ass.

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 givinganyone 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?