Cross-Checked (Boston Rebels #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

AJ

“ A nd what do we think about the rumors that Alessandra Jones, general manager for the Boston Rebels, may be a finalist for the GM of the Year award?” The voice of Ted Deveney, one of the country’s most beloved sportscasters, has my head snapping up from the contract I’m reviewing. Now, with my heart pounding, my attention is entirely focused on the TV on the opposite side of my office.

“I’d say it’s long overdue,” Stefanie Flowers, Ted’s co-host, responds, and I let out a small sigh of relief. “She’s taken that organization from consistently breaking the hearts of their fans, to consistently being one of the top teams in the entire league.”

“That’s true,” Ted says, his trademark white mustache flattening into a straight line as his lips curve up and he chuckles.

“Division champions four out of the six years she’s been GM, conference champions twice, and Stanley Cup champions once. I’d say she’s earned at least this nomination, if not the actual award.”

As one of the few female sportscasters covering the NHL on the national level, I’m thrilled that Stefanie is showing the same passion I have about seeing a female GM do well.

“And,” Ted adds, “with one win already under their belt in this second round of playoffs, and Boston basically outperforming Carolina in every way, I’d say they’re off to a good start securing a fifth division championship.”

“We’ll see what happens in Game 2 tomorrow night, and then as Boston heads down to Carolina later this week,” Stefanie says. “With most of their lineup already in place for next year, and minimal changes in the roster, the team really seems to be jelling.”

“The latest news from the Rebels is that Aidan Renaud will be coming off the IR in time for next season.”

“I’m sure they’re excited about getting Renaud back. But the question remains,” she says, and I groan internally, because I already know where this is going, “whether Ronan McCabe will be staying next year.”

“Sounds like a classic case of a star player and his team not being able to agree on what he’s worth,” Ted says, an air of nonchalance in his voice.

“Well, we’re all eager to see how that works out. It’s hard to imagine the Rebels without McCabe leading them, but we’re also hearing rumors that he may be interested in potentially moving to another team.”

I can feel my nostrils flare. Given that we haven’t reached an agreement, I know his agent must be starting to look at other teams. But the fact that we’re still in season and he’s not being more discreet about it pisses me off. And we haven’t reached the free agency interview period yet, so no actual conversations should be happening.

Sometimes, it feels like McCabe wants to leave. The number of times he’s tried to step down from being captain, and his obvious distaste for me, make it seem like he has one foot out the door and is just waiting for me to beg him to stay. And I’m not the type to do that, no matter how good he is.

“They still have a few weeks to come to an agreement, but it’ll be interesting to see if that happens, or if McCabe becomes an unrestricted free agent,” Ted adds.

“Yeah, interesting is one word for it. If he continues to perform in the playoffs as well as he has all season, it would be crazy for the Rebels to let one of their star players go. But I personally can’t wait for this round of playoffs to conclude, so we’ll finally know who those GM of the Year finalists are.”

“You holding out for the first female nomination in the history of professional hockey?”

Stefanie’s smile is broad as the camera zooms in on her. “You know it, Ted. I think we’re watching history unfold.”

The knots in my stomach tighten, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. I want to relish this moment, when the nation’s most well-known hockey sportscasters are talking about my success, but all I feel is the overwhelming pit of dread at the thought of letting people down.

Straightening my spine, I remind myself that Frank Hartmann, owner of the Rebels, took a huge risk bringing me to Boston six seasons ago—and all he’s ever asked of me is that I rebuild this organization with players who care about our fans and bring home the Cup. He didn’t ask for me to win awards, he asked me to focus on the team. Doing that may have made me a stand-out GM, but this has never been about me. It’s always been about the team.

I relax my shoulders and open my eyes, almost jumping out of my seat at the sight of my Director of Marketing and Communications, Lauren, standing on the other side of my desk.

“Where the hell did you come from?” I ask as I exhale the breath that just caught in my throat.

One of her arms is folded as it holds her laptop against her chest, and the other reaches to pull out a chair. “I assume that’s a rhetorical question,” she says with a laugh as she sinks into the seat across from me, “since you put this meeting on my calendar.”

“But I didn’t even hear you sneak in,” I tell her as I pick up the remote on my desk and mute the TV.

“Yeah. You were so focused on that amazing news coverage that you didn’t notice me knock at your open door or walk in here.”

I let out a tight laugh, and Lauren raises her eyebrow in response.

“You okay?” she asks.

Pressing my lips together, I nod. “Never been better.”

Lauren looks at me like she sees right through this the pressure doesn’t bother me charade. And she probably does. Over the last year and a half that she’s worked for me, she’s gradually become my best friend as well. “It’s a lot of pressure.”

I appreciate how she understands that every single decision I make is viewed through the lens of “the first female GM in the history of the league...” It’s a privilege to serve in this role. And yet, sometimes the pressure is stifling.

Over the last six seasons, we’ve set pretty much every individual record in Rebels history—most shutouts, highest number of goals scored in a single season, most goals scored by a defenseman, most assists by a single player, highest save percentage, and the list goes on. If we can win the conference championship this year, we’ll be the winningest team in Boston hockey history.

That pressure isn’t on my shoulders—I’ve done everything I can leading up to and during this season to put the team in a position to bring home the Cup again. Now, it’s up to them. But if it doesn’t happen, I already know I’ll hyperfixate on what I could have done differently to set them up better.

And one of the questions I’m sure I’ll be asking myself is whether it was a mistake to bring Frank Hartmann’s son, Luke, to Boston as our newest goalie. I did it against his wishes because while he was concerned it would look like nepotism, my primary concern is finding a replacement for our top goalie, Colt, who will likely retire at the end of next season.

Luke is fresh and young, a player who I knew would work well with and learn from Colt. He came here with no ego. He’s the kind of selfless team player we need, and I wish some of our veteran players—particularly our team captain Ronan McCabe—were more like Luke Hartmann.

And while Hartmann did well in the regular season, now that we’re in the playoffs, he isn’t playing at the level I need him to be. I remind myself that he’s still growing, that this is only his third season in the pros and his first time making the playoffs, but the self-doubt creeps in, making me question myself and my past decisions.

“What the hell is going on, AJ?” Lauren asks. It’s only then that I realize I’m so lost in my own head, I never responded to her.

“Nothing. It’s a lot of pressure is all, just like you said.”

“Are you doing okay with everything?” Her sweet voice carries notes of empathy.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that this damn award is adding a whole other level of stress to an already overwhelming time.”

“It’s like Stefanie said, though. It’s long overdue. You’ve earned this.”

The finalists for the award are voted on by every general manager in the league, plus a few league executives and a few members of the media. The stats for our team—the way we’ve grown and improved over the six seasons I’ve been here—would have had any other GM nominated years ago.

And yet, I’ve never been a finalist.

I could speculate on all the reasons why, but I’ve been down that road before, and it doesn’t end well for my mental health.

“You turned this team around, AJ,” Lauren reminds me. “And whether you’re a finalist for this award or not doesn’t change that. Not when you’ve already come this far.”

I lean back in my chair, relaxing for the first time in too long. “I know you’re right. And I know that carving out a space for women in such a male-dominated sport is an uphill battle?—”

“One you’ve already won , by the way,” Lauren chimes in.

“—and I’m not doing it for the recognition, you know? I’d never tell anyone else this,” I say, glancing at the open door to make sure no one’s outside my office, before I drop my voice lower. “But for once, it would be nice for the men who hold the same position I do to look at the work I’ve done here and to finally say ‘good job.’ Frank took such a huge risk bringing me here, and I’m honored to have been the first female GM in the league. I just want to make sure I’m not the last, you know?”

I want my legacy to live on. It sounds so selfish and cliché when I say it in my head. But I don’t want this for my own ego. I want this so that other women know they can do this, too.

But I keep the thought where it belongs—in my head—because I don’t know how to say that without it sounding like it’s about me.

“You won’t be the last, AJ. But it’s a huge honor to have been the first. And even if you had sucked at it,” Lauren says with a laugh, “which obviously you haven’t , you still wouldn’t be the last female GM. Because now that you’ve done it, even more women are going to set their sights on upper management.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Like you?”

She laughs again and holds both her hands out in front of her like she’s pushing the thought away. “No, I have my hands absolutely full at the moment. I couldn’t take on any more responsibility, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t, so stop trying to put ideas in my head.”

Lauren’s got three-year-old twin girls, and this summer she’s getting married to one of the best men I know. Jameson Flynn is not only one of the most well-respected agents in hockey, he’s also incredibly loyal, trustworthy, and fair. He’s brought me talent I didn’t know I needed, and helped me rebuild his former team behind the scenes. The fact that he also introduced me to Lauren when she was looking to get back into sports marketing has only made me like him more.

“You sure?” I tease. “Because I’d love to have a female VP on staff.”

“Listen, I’m not saying never . I’m just saying no time soon.”

“So now you’re handing out promotions without even running them by me?” Frank Hartmann’s voice bellows as he strides through the door to my office.

A broad grin splits my face at his teasing tone. One of the things I love most about Frank, besides the fact that he’s like the dad I wish I had, is that he isn’t a micromanager. I run things by him out of professional courtesy, but aside from my decision to bring his son onto our team—which he was concerned would look like nepotism—he never questions me. He trusts me to do the job he hired me to do, and that’s been one of the best parts of coming to Boston.

“No, no,” Lauren says with a shake of her head. “AJ just promoted me to my current position. She’s not promoting me again.”

“Have I told you recently that you’re doing a fine job?” Frank asks her.

“Fine like mediocre? Or fine like high quality?” Lauren’s auburn eyebrows, a couple shades darker than her hair, scrunch together as she looks over to Frank, who’s taken the seat next to her.

“Which do you think?” His pale eyes practically dance with amusement above his rounded cheeks. The man is an absolute teddy bear.

“Definitely high quality,” Lauren says with a decisive nod.

“You would be correct. Now, we have a bit of an issue that I need y’all to deal with in the quickest and most professional way possible.” He glances between us. “We’ve had three fights break out in the stands during the playoffs. In every instance, security footage shows that it was our fans, wearing our players’ jerseys, that started each altercation. I know people get excited and tensions are high, but we don’t want Boston fans to be known as aggressive shit-starters any more than we want our players to have that kind of reputation.”

“So you want us to . . .” Lauren drags the word out. “. . . change the fans’ behavior?”

“I want you to figure out how this organization can show the fans that this behavior isn’t acceptable, without coming off as preachy or heavy-handed,” Frank says.

Lauren sinks her teeth into her lower lip, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. Fighting is part of the game, and I know immediately that she’s thinking it would be pretty hypocritical for a hockey team to tell its fans that fighting is wrong.

“Okay,” I say decisively, because Frank wants solutions. “We’ll take care of it.”

“How?” he asks, as Lauren turns to me with the same question in her eyes.

“We’ll figure it out,” I tell him. “But off the top of my head, it seems like it would be easy to get a friendly reporter to lob a softball question about this to one of our players during post- game press, and then have the player remind fans that the only fighting that belongs at our games is on the ice.”

“Make sure it’s McCabe,” Frank says.

“Why him ?” The question bursts out of me, followed by a laugh. Of all the players on the team, no one is less likely to engage in friendly banter with reporters, or ask fans to leave the fighting to the professionals on the ice, than McCabe.

“He’s the team captain,” Frank says as he stands and shoves his hands in his pockets, clearly done with this conversation. “It needs to come from him.”

It takes everything I have not to push back on this, not to tell Frank that there are other players who are just as respected by the fans and far more likely to help us out with this.

“Understood,” I say as he turns to head out the door. Because when your billionaire boss writes your very hefty paychecks and mostly leaves you alone to do your job however you want, you don’t question him when he asks for something minor. Even when you know it’s just going to make your life more difficult.

Lauren leans back in her chair, looking relaxed for the first time since Frank walked into the office. “Want me to talk to McCabe?”

I look at the ceiling as I bite the inside of my cheek. Everyone knows that McCabe and I have a contentious relationship on the best of days, but it’s grown even more tense this season because his contract is up and he’s making ridiculous demands for us to keep him. Still, I’m his boss, so I can put on my big girl pants and tell him what he needs to do.

“No, it’s fine.” I shake my head, glancing over toward the wall of glass overlooking the practice rink. “It should come from me. Just let me know who the reporter will be, and I’ll tell him what the plan is before our next home game.”