Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
McCabe
“ I need you for the press,” AJ tells me when I’m walking down the hall toward the locker room after a tough loss tonight. I didn’t play my best, and I know I was distracted—a point that was made abundantly clear when AJ came down to the glass before we cleared the bench at the end of the second period and read me the fucking riot act. In front of my teammates. In front of the crowd.
“Not tonight.” I barely get the words out through my clenched teeth. I’m pissed—a little at her for calling me out publicly, but mostly at me for letting myself get distracted like that during a game.
She assured me that Abby would be fine with her. But I spent so much of the first period trying to get my eyes on them, to see for myself that Abby was okay, that she had to come down and sit in the stands just so I could focus on the game.
And every single time I glanced over after that, Abby was contentedly snuggled into AJ, probably asleep. I wish I could say that I kept glancing over because I was worried about Abby, but the truth—a truth I will never reveal to a single living soul—is that I couldn’t stop looking at her holding my baby.
Seeing AJ with Abby was like seeing a whole other side of her. A softer side that I hadn’t seen her reveal in years. I want to forget what she used to be like, before her asshole ex-husband hardened her, before she had to seal herself off because now she’s everyone’s boss.
Because that version of AJ—the one I saw when she was the scout who recruited me to the NHL, and the one I still saw glimpses of after she was promoted to assistant GM in St. Louis—that’s the version of her I could have had feelings for, if she wasn’t married at the time.
“Listen,” she says, one hand on the stroller as she pushes it back and forth. I glance down to see Abby sleeping peacefully, no trace of the fussiness she normally exhibits around strangers. “You need to be in there because there was another fight in the stands tonight. It’s the third home game in a row that this has happened at, and it’s always our fans, and they’re always wearing your jersey.”
“I don’t have control over how the fans act, AJ.”
“You have a lot more influence than you realize. And this organization needs you to say something about what’s acceptable behavior for our fans, because this reflects poorly on Boston...on our players, our fans, our arena. Every aspect of this organization suffers from shit like this. You have to see that.”
“Sure.” I shrug. “But I’m not our fans’ behavior police.”
“I don’t need you to be the behavior police. I need you, when asked what you think about the recent fights that have broken out in the stands, to say something about appreciating the fans’ enthusiasm, but that fighting’s not acceptable behavior at games, except between players on the ice.”
My fists clench and I pause for a brief second, wondering if she’s intentionally goading me. Because the last time I got in a fight off the ice, she traded my ass so fast I was left wondering what the hell had happened.
“I don’t need the fucking reminder that off-ice fighting isn’t okay,” I tell her, hating how I can feel my cheeks burning. I live with that reminder every day. My heart still breaks every single time I think about what I missed out on when I was traded to Boston. “But neither you nor I have control over what fans do in the stands.”
“See, you keep saying that, but I don’t think that’s true. These are grown men who idolize you because you’re living the dream they never achieved. You tell them to change their behavior, and I bet they’ll fall in line.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “We’ll never know, will we?”
“You have ten minutes to change and be in that pressroom. I’ll see you there.”
I glance down, wanting to stroke my daughter’s cheek but afraid I’ll wake her. “What about Abby?”
“Lauren’s going to stay and watch her so I can be at the press conference.”
“Making sure I fall into line?” I ask with a raised eyebrow, so she might think I’m teasing. But I’m not, and I’m sure she knows it.
“Someone’s got to, McCabe.”
I take a small step toward her. She’s tall, but she still has to look up at me from this distance. “And you think it’s going to be you?”
The question is bordering on flirting. It’s the kind of thing I’d have said to her eight years ago, and I need to shut that shit down. Because no matter how attractive I find her, and it’s even more so after seeing her with Abby, I know that nothing comes before hockey for AJ.
She not only traded me, but she demoted her own husband after that fight, sending him back to the AHL as a head coach and calling it a promotion. No one was fooled, because clearly an assistant coaching job in the pros is a step up from a head coaching job in the minors.
She squares her shoulders, and I have to wonder if the bead of sweat that falls from my hair down the side of my face is from the game I just played, or from sparring with her.
Her dark eyes narrow. “It’s either going to be me, or it’s going to be your next GM. I guess it depends on how badly you want to stay in Boston.”
I swear ice runs through her veins, because this woman can be painfully cold. I don’t know why I like that side of her so much.
“I guess we’ll see, then,” I say, before turning and heading into the locker room to get changed for a press conference I don’t want to attend.
When I take my seat at the table in front of the microphones, Walsh on one side of me and Colt on the other, I wish we’d had time to shower. Because it’s hot as hell in this small room, and even the clean t-shirts we changed into and the Rebels hats we threw on to hold our sweaty hair out of our faces are doing nothing to hide the stench of three guys who just played their asses off and still came up short.
The first few questions are about the game—about what we could have done differently, whether we got just a little bit cocky after sweeping Carolina in the last series, and what we plan to do differently when we take Philadelphia on again in two days. Our answers are the same, bland answers we always give because we can’t say anything about strategy, our players’ strengths, or the other team’s weaknesses.
And the longer we sit there, avoiding their questions, the more annoyed I am that we constantly have to play this stupid game with the press. We’re never going to give them the answers they’re looking for, but we have to sit here pretending after every game. All I want to do is hop on the bike and move some of this lactic acid out of my legs, which are already starting to cramp up, and then get Abby home and in bed.
So when the question comes, I’m already in a bad mood. And even though AJ told me how she wanted me to respond—maybe even because she practically dictated my response and then threatened not to renew my contract if I didn’t act accordingly—I do the exact opposite.
When the friendly question is lobbed my way, asking what I think about the fact that so many fights have broken out at our home games lately, I say, “I don’t think about it.”
Beside me, Colt clears his throat, clearly telling me that wasn’t the right answer.
“In every instance, the fans involved were wearing your jersey,” the reporter says. “What would you say to those fans? Do you condone their actions?”
My eyes flick to AJ where she’s standing in the back of the room, her face unreadable—just how she seems to like it. I don’t take my eyes off her when I respond. “Hockey can be a violent sport. But being the captain of my team doesn’t mean I’m in charge of the fans. So I don’t have anything to say about their behavior.”
I hear the low groan that rattles out from both Walsh and Colt, too quietly for the microphones to pick up, but I don’t give a shit. All I care about is the fire I see brewing in AJ’s eyes. I like that way more than the impassive expression she was wearing a moment ago.
“Was your daughter in the stands tonight?” The question rings out from a reporter I most definitely didn’t call on, so I should probably ignore it. But when I get riled up, I have a hard time controlling my mouth.
“Why is that your business?” I ask as my head snaps to the young woman who’s new this year.
“Well, when your general manager is the only female up for the GM of the Year award, but then appears to be babysitting your kid at a game”—she looks around at the other reporters—“we naturally have questions about that.”
I scoff, about to respond with a very sarcastic, “Naturally,” when AJ’s voice takes over from the back of the room.
“I’d like to take that question, since it’s about me,” she says, taking the steps down the side of the room until she’s on the same level as the table where we’re sitting. “I was not asked to watch McCabe’s daughter tonight; I insisted on it. And I don’t like the implication that it’s because I’m a woman.”
She levels the young female reporter with a look that has her shrinking back in her seat. “When you’re the general manager of a team, you make hard decisions. But helping a player out when his nanny doesn’t show up isn’t one of them. That decision was easy. He needed to play, and I had the power to make that happen.” She folds her arms under her chest and lifts her chin as she adds defiantly, “If there’s another GM in the league who wouldn’t have done the same in that situation, maybe he doesn’t truly have the best interests of his team at heart.”
It’s mayhem as everyone throws more questions out, but AJ remains eerily calm as she says, “Thanks so much for your questions, but we’re going to let our players wrap up their night. See you again after our next game.”
She turns and is the first one out the door, but when Walsh, Colt, and I follow her into the hall, she grasps my forearm. Looking up at me with searing intensity, she says, “My office. Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”
And then she’s off down the hall, her hips swaying beneath her blazer in a way that has me entirely too focused on her ass.
“Shit, man,” Colt says once AJ is out of earshot.
“We were even told we were getting that question ahead of time,” Walsh says. “How’d you fuck it up so bad?”
“I didn’t fuck it up,” I tell them. “I said exactly what I told her I was going to say.”
“Why are you always trying to piss her off?” Colt asks, eyebrow lifting as he looks at me.
“I’m not.” It’s a lie. “Nothing I said was untrue. Being the captain of the team doesn’t mean I have to babysit the fans.”
“Just like being GM doesn’t mean AJ has to babysit your daughter,” Walsh says, his disappointed dad tone ringing out in his voice. “And yet she did, because it’s what was best for the team . Leadership requires sacrifice, my friend. It means that you put the good of the whole above any personal feelings you might have.”
“I fucking know that,” I say with a bite. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know that I didn’t act that way tonight. I let my history with AJ get in the way of doing what the team needed me to do. Maybe I wanted to piss her off, or maybe I’m subconsciously trying to make sure she doesn’t renew my contract—I don’t even know. What I do know is that I don’t think clearly when she’s around.
“Do you, though?” Colt asks.
“I assume you’re not coming out to celebrate AJ’s nomination tonight?” Walsh asks as my head snaps toward Colt. I’m sure he’s trying to interrupt what could easily turn into an argument.
Fuck, why am I fighting with everyone these days? This isn’t who I am. These are my teammates. They’re practically brothers to me. I need to unstress my fucking life so I’m not always so agitated.
“No. Not only do I have to take Abby home,” I say as I see Lauren at the end of the hallway wheeling the stroller toward me. “But I highly doubt AJ would want me there anyway.”
“Probably not tonight,” Walsh agrees.
Pissing her off felt good in the moment, but it feels childish now. Damn, this woman turns me into a fool.