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THREE

Joey

We won handily, and the hometown crowd’s voices echoed so loud through the arena that I was barely able to hear myself think.

The line chemistry was on point, our goaltending was our strong suit (something that we’ve struggled with in the past), and our special teams—both on the power play and the penalty kill—were outstanding.

But it was really Storm who shined tonight.

And it’s him who Lake Jordan, our captain, gives this season’s Player of the Game prize to.

This is something that I know speaks to the health of the locker room—namely that it’s good.

A fuck-ton better than it’s been over the last few years.

Better yet?

I didn’t come up with the idea of a Player of the Game.

And I didn’t buy the prize.

That was all the guys.

And it’s funny as fuck—not to mention, full to the brim with teasing. Typical when it comes to hockey locker room shenanigans, but the bejeweled fanny pack full of snacks Lake and company came up with takes it to another level. At first glance a fanny pack doesn’t seem so bad, especially one full of snacks, but because it requires the “winner” to pose with it snapped around their waist, one of the homemade cookies from a local granny who’s all but adopted some of the guys on the team in hand, it’s both reward and punishment.

Also typical for a hockey team.

Grandma Donna is the honorary granny who makes the cookies in the team’s kitchen, but what makes this a reward and not just punishment is that she developed a special concoction just for that fanny pack.

One taste and Storm quit bitching about the pictures.

Partly because her concoction is delicious (I got my own batch of the chocolate peanut butter balls) and partly because the normally trustworthy Riggs said the photo was for Donna herself, to let her know her gift was appreciated.

Of course, if that photo happened to make its way to the social media team and happened to find its way online…well, it’s nobody’s fault, really.

And considering I’ve already seen the picture pop up on the team’s socials, I know the normally strait-laced Riggs has been influenced by his mischief-making wife, Ella—the sister of his teammate and mischief-maker extraordinaire, Knox.

I love that for Riggs.

The newfound twinkle in his eyes. The fact that he’s not just sitting and brooding in the corner.

He’s more .

And, coach or not, I care about the guys.

So, I love the shenanigans and I love how happy Riggs is with Ella, how happy Lake is with Nova, how happy Knox is with Ivy.

I know it’s because they’ve found women who fulfill them, who match them in respect and devotion and love, and even though that’s not destined to be my future, I’m glad for the guys to have that.

Plus, it makes for great social media.

Winking at Lake, I clap him lightly on the shoulder. “Nice.”

And then I leave the guys to it.

I have press to talk to and my players just want to chill out, fuck around, and cut loose after a successful game. They don’t want the person who decides their playing time to hang about and cramp their style.

But I still feel a pang of jealousy, of missing the camaraderie so much it hurts to breathe—it’s been a long time since my college hockey days were ended by an injury that meant I transitioned from playing to coaching, but I don’t think the yearning to be part of a team in that way is something that ever goes away.

Not for me, anyway.

I ignore the pain, the tightness in my lungs, and I deal with the press, give my interview, make my soundbites. Before I can end it and head for my office so I can finish with my post-game tasks, a question carelessly tossed across the room sends my blood boiling.

“How do you think that spending so much time rebuilding the Sierra has impacted your love life?”

What the actual fuck?

The room goes quiet and still, and swear to fuck, if I heard a romcom record scratch, I wouldn’t be surprised.

And I certainly don’t miss the wide-eyed glances the other reporters exchange.

My temper spikes. I just want to enjoy the win, ignore the shit that Damon churned up. I just want to do my fucking job without assholes jabbing at me, trying to get a reaction that will undermine my position.

But…misogyny.

Which isn’t entirely fair. Or maybe it’s not completely true.

Yeah, there are still assholes out there on social media, critiquing every move I make. But they’re quieting, coming fewer and further between.

It’s just…exhausting.

Having to be perfect and always composed and constantly walking a tightrope—being feminine and approachable and don’t forget to smile battling with just wanting to have the freedom to do my job like my male counterparts are able to.

But that’s not my reality.

I’m the first female coach in the league, and the expectations— my expectations—are high.

I open my mouth, staring at the young twenty-something male who looks vaguely familiar. He’s wearing a smug expression on his face, and I feel a sharp retort zip toward the tip of my tongue. Then I glance around the room, some of my rage tempered by the looks on the rest of the reporters’ and sports bloggers’ faces.

Shock. Annoyance. Outrage .

And not just from the women.

A breath centers me. This too shall pass.

Another has my reply coming to mind.

This isn’t the first time some asshole wants me to lose my cool and mouth off, and while some of the coaches in the league can get away with their fiery responses and well-known tempers, I don’t have that same luxury.

For the moment, that’s reality.

I have to be calm and collected, lest I’m emotional.

I have to be measured and successful, lest I’m impulsive.

I have to be perfect , lest I don’t belong here.

Not with everyone.

But still with enough people that I’m always—fucking always —aware of the double standard of being a female coach in this league.

So, I don’t mouth off.

Instead, I look at that group of men and women who are annoyed by the question on my behalf, and ask, “Anyone have any real questions?”

“I—” the smug fuck, who definitely looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t place from wear, begins to protest.

“I noticed you transitioned to an offensive-focused defense for tonight’s game,” one of the men asks over the protesting child. “Is that a plan you intend to stick with?”

“When we have players like Riggs Ashford protecting our blue line, it would be stupid to not utilize his skills. And what he brings to our defense as a whole…”

Thankfully, my answer draws everyone back on track and by the time I call it and head for my office, I haven’t been asked any other absurd questions. Of course, I don’t make it free and clear. I’m stopped by some of my other coaches in the halls—Ivy checks in with me about a strength session later in the week, my head video coach lets me know my tape is ready, and Kaitlyn tells me that the practice plan for our ice in two days’ time is in our shared drive.

Everything’s working as it should.

Which means that I get through my post-game tasks with ease and it’s not terribly late when I head to the parking lot and get in my car.

The night is clear, the stars overhead sparkling, and there’s that cool kiss of fall sinking into winter hanging in the air.

We’ll have snow soon and then Christmas will be around the corner and that’s my favorite part of the year.

I can’t wait.

Which is why I’m smiling when I pull into my driveway.

Unfortunately, that smile fades.

Because the moment I reach for the button to open the garage door, I realize?—

I’m not alone.