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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 leaguehad been a fantasy. A league that was this big and this popular? Pure fiction.

And for me personally, the chance—thefreedom—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 wasournight. 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 wasfinallytime 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’swhat 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.