Page 20

I hang up the phone and fall back onto my bed.

Hunter called to check in on me and to see if I read any articles about the game today.

He didn’t have to say which one he was referring to.

I’m not an idiot.

Of course I saw the article where stupid Roger Park claims I’m the reason Grayson was fired.

Oh, and I only got hired because of my father’s accomplishments.

It’s not the first time someone has said I’m only successful because of my father—and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

The thing that bothers me the most is that the article claims I had something to do with Grayson being fired.

Grayson is the reason Grayson got fired.

Hunter told me not to worry about it.

Apparently, the Gazette is known for its gossip and anyone with a brain won’t take the article seriously.

That may be true but this article is the last thing I needed to see on game day.

I’m going to allow myself five minutes to wallow in it and then snap out of it.

Five minutes later my alarm goes off, signaling the end of my pity party.

I jump out of bed, turn One Direction on full blast, and head to my closet to pick out my game day outfit .

Most people wouldn’t think your game day outfit is important, but they’d be sorely mistaken.

Hockey players aren’t like football or basketball players when it comes to what they wear on game day.

You see NFL or NBA players walking in with furry coats, jeans, or a homemade t-shirt sometimes.

Not hockey players.

We dress to fucking impress.

Look good.

Feel good.

Play good.

It’s a thing, I swear.

The only problem is, I have no idea what the hell to wear to my first game.

I want to make a statement.

I don’t need my first postgame article to be anything like the pregame article I read this morning.

I need people to take me seriously.

“Ugh!” Frustrated, with about half my wardrobe thrown on the floor, I give up and take off for reinforcements.

Without knocking, hoping to god she’s not doing anything inappropriate, I barge into my guest room.

“ Sadie! Help!”

Luckily, she’s fully dressed in front of the mirror, finishing braiding her hair.

“What’s up, gorgeous? Want me to take care of that sleazy reporter for you? I brought my nunchucks.”

I plop down onto the edge of her bed and pull my legs up underneath me.

“Nope. We’re not going there. I felt my feelings and now we’re moving on.”

She turns to look at me, and no matter how many times I see her, Sadie stuns me silent with her beauty.

She doesn’t even try, but somehow she’s always glowing, even in sweatpants.

With two braided pigtails, eyes the color of melted chocolate, and a small collection of freckles on her cheeks, she looks effortlessly beautiful.

“So what is it you need help with?”

I gesture to the sports bra and boy shorts I’m currently wearing.

“I have absolutely nothing to wear tonight. I’d be better off wearing a garbage bag than anything hanging in my closet. I need an outfit that shouts ‘Confident Badass’ but literally nothing in my closet will work .

Sadie doesn’t respond. Instead, she’s up on her feet and searching for something in her closet.

I follow her into the small walk-in and try to figure out what she could possibly be looking for. “Sades, I love you.

But I don’t think your overalls or yoga pants are quite appropriate in my line of work.

”

She ignores me and continues searching for whatever it is she’s looking for.

How can this many clothes fit into this tiny walk-in closet anyway?

“Ah-ha!” she yells, scaring the crap out of me.

She turns toward me with a mischievous look on her face, holding a black garment bag.

“What the hell is that?”

Sadie walks past me, and I follow her back into my room.

She hangs the garment bag on the back of the door, turns around, and starts doing what I can only guess is the lawnmower dance move my dad used to do to embarrass me.

“First, we’re gonna dance it out. Then, you’re going to take a scalding hot shower, shave, and exfoliate. Then , you’re going to put very minimal makeup on that beautiful face, because let’s face it, you don’t even need any. And then, you’re going to put on the most badass outfit I bought for you as a congrats on landing your dream job. I promise, you’ll feel both professional and powerful wearing it.”

I pull Sadie into the biggest bear hug of her life because what the heck would I do without her?

“What kind of badass outfit are we talking?” I let go of her and eye the garment bag hanging behind her.

She turns around and unzips the bag.

Before reaching in to show me what she got, she looks over her shoulder at me.

“What’s one color a man could never pull off but a woman can make a goddamn statement in?”

Before I can answer, she’s reaching into the garment bag and holding up the most sophisticated suit I’ve ever seen.

“White, of course.”

The buzzer sounds at the same time Lincoln screams, “Fuck!” and storms off the bench.

We lost our opening game 4–2.

The guys played well, but the bounces didn’t go our way.

It’s not how any of us wanted to start our season.

We were down by one goal with two minutes to go.

Lincoln called a timeout and told me to draw up the six-on-five situation we’ve been working on at practice for when we pull our goalie.

Our guys executed it perfectly, but Chicago’s goalie played out of his mind all night.

After an amazing save, the puck took a weird bounce right over Jefferson’s stick and Chicago’s defensemen launched the puck down the ice and got an empty-netter.

There was nothing we could’ve done differently.

Okay, well, maybe we could’ve found a way to put the puck in the net.

With how frustrated Lincoln is, I’m trying not to let my own frustrations show.

It’s hard not to be angry and disappointed after a loss, but I’m choosing to focus on the positives from the game.

I can wallow in my negative feelings later.

Away from the rink.

I follow Lincoln down the tunnel to the locker room, where we wait in the coaches’ room until the guys have made it off the ice and back to their stalls.

Lincoln and I stand at the far wall, while Hunter takes a seat at his locker on the opposite side of the room.

While we’re waiting, Lucy, the head of PR, pokes her head in.

“Hey, I know it's a bad time but we’d like you both to come for the postgame press conference,” she says as she nods to the side of the room Lincoln and I are standing. “Oh, and can you grab Niko too?”

Lincoln makes a disapproving noise before turning back to his notes. I nod toward Lucy and give her a quick, “sure,” before she exits the room .

It’s so damn quiet in here, I swear I can hear Lincoln’s heart pounding next to me. Thankfully, Hunter breaks the silence.

“Well, that fucking sucked but we did a lot of things right out there too. I know it’s not the outcome we wanted, but let’s not go in there and beat a dead horse. They’re already feeling like shit.”

I nod in my agreement, and Lincoln finally looks up from his notes.

He lets out a loud sigh, and for how angry he just was he seems pretty composed right now. “You’re right. Let’s not pretend it’s okay that we lost but I’d rather stay positive and fuel their fire for our next game. Let’s go do the damn thing and then get that damn press conference over with.”

So far, Niko and Lincoln have taken the majority of the questions from the reporters, which I am eternally grateful for. It has allowed me to get my bearings and sort out my emotions after such a disappointing loss.

I’m mid-sip of water when none other than Roger Park stands to take the next question.

“Ms. Montgomery, could you comment on the rumors going around regarding your involvement with Coach Sanders being fired?”

Before I can respond, I’m surprised to hear Lincoln’s deep voice. “It’s Coach Montgomery.”

Okay, that’s hot. Annoying that he cut me off, but still hot.

“And we’re here to discuss the game tonight. Nothing more.”

Roger gives him a sleazy smile before turning back to me. “My apologies, Coach Montgomery.” The way he says it, I know for damn sure he’s not even a little bit sorry .

He looks down at his notes before asking his next question. “It looked like you were in charge of the six-on-five situation after pulling the goalie.”

I lean forward toward the mic on the table. “I’m sorry, Roger, but I didn’t hear a question.”

They do their best to hide it, but I hear both Lincoln and Niko snicker next to me.

Roger doesn’t look as amused, though. “You drew up the final play that inevitably led to your first loss of the season. How are you feeling about that? A bit out of your depth in the big leagues?”

Is he fucking serious? I count to three and let out a deep breath like my therapist taught me to do in these interview situations and do my best to stay composed. I tend to make a habit of bottling up my emotions until they pour out in an unhealthy way. After the loss, my emotions are about to bubble over, so I take one more deep breath and count to three again before responding.

“Actually, I think our guys executed that play almost perfectly. I say almost, because we obviously didn’t get the job done. We have to put the puck in the net. There’s nothing else to say. But kudos to Chicago’s goalie for standing on his head out there.”

I pick up my glass to take another sip when Roger raises his hand for a follow up question. “So you actually think you’re qualified to be in those situations and not just a pretty face to distract the press from last season’s scandal?”

I swear to god I almost choke on my water. Thankfully, I swallow it down at the same time I squeeze the pencil so tight in my hand that it snaps in half. I’m clenching my jaw so tightly the pressure builds and my ears start to ring. Taking a deep breath, I count to three again before responding.

“Considering I have just as much playing experience—if not more than the men sitting next to me…” I pause to look down the table before continuing. “And I’ve coached and tr ained some of the world’s best athletes, I’d say I’m more than qualified. Roger, let me ask you this, do you question every coach who fails to execute on a six-on-five opportunity? Or just the ones with a vagina?” My heart is pounding out of my chest, but I maintain my composure as I wait for the asshole to answer my question.

He bites on the end of his pen before pointing it directly at me. “No, Coach Montgomery. I don’t. I usually don’t have to question a coach’s worth like I do yours.”

I can feel Niko’s stare as the reporter’s words sink in.

Stay calm. He’s trying to bait you.

Just as I’m about to respond, Lincoln cuts me off. Again.

He pounds his fist so hard on the table that everyone’s water and papers go flying. “That’s enough ! I will not allow any member of the press to speak to Coach Montgomery, or any member of this organization for that matter, that way. Especially not a sexist man who is really bad at their job. Security, can you please take the trash out and escort Mr. Park from the building?”

Within seconds, two security guards have Roger by the arms and they’re escorting him from the building.

My hands are shaking and my pulse is racing. I’m not sure if I’m more pissed at dickhead Roger or the fact that Lincoln interrupted me because he thought I needed saving. While I’m trying to decide what’s the root of my anger, I hear his voice again.

“Let me make myself clear. Postgame press conferences are for postgame discussions only. If anyone tries to humiliate or degrade one of my coaches or players again, you will not be allowed back in this arena. We’re done here.”

Thank god.

I scoot my chair back and am on my feet, making my way to the door. I think I hear both Lincoln and Niko call my name but I’m too worked up to care .

Hunter is waiting outside the coaches’ room when I come barreling down the hallway. “Whoa, Ellie. You okay?”

I shake my head and open the door. “I need five minutes.”

He nods his head as the door shuts behind me. I’m pacing the room when I hear muffled shouting outside the door.

Before I know what’s happening the door flies open and the sight before me paralyzes me for a moment.

Because Lincoln Scott stands at the door and the look on his face could bring me to my damn knees.