Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
AJ
“ I can’t even tell you what a relief it is to know that you’re going to be on board part time,” I tell Morgan as I sit back in my office chair, watching her sign the consulting paperwork HR and our legal team drew up for her yesterday.
She laughs and relaxes in the chair opposite me, pushing her strawberry-blonde hair back over her shoulder. With her big eyes, fair skin, and freckles that sweep across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, she doesn’t look old enough to have earned an MBA and started her own company.
“I don’t know why you think I’m some sort of social media miracle worker.”
“Because you are ,” I say, picking up my phone and clicking on the most recent notification on Instagram. “Please don’t sell yourself short. And I’m excited not only to have you on retainer personally, but to have you helping with the Rebels’ social media also.”
I glance down at my screen, noting how this morning’s post already has thousands of likes. I don’t even have that many followers, but Morgan had me post it as a collaboration with Ronan and because of his follower count it’s completely blown up.
Of course it has. It’s a series of six images of us at home together after returning from Game 2 yesterday.
I’m in a casual knit jumpsuit with a wide boat neck top that’s slid down off one shoulder as I sit on the living room floor, building a block tower with Abby so she can knock it down, which is still her favorite activity.
He’s sitting behind me in shorts and a t-shirt, his forearm casually wrapped around my waist, one leg stretched out the side with his knee bent and his elbow resting on it as he looks over my shoulder, smiling at Abby where she stands, arms up, ready to demolish the tower. In the next one, I’m laughing as the blocks come tumbling down, and he’s looking down at me with complete adoration written across his face.
The whole series of images is so “us,” that I felt good about posting them. They were exactly what Ronan wanted to showcase when I mentioned Morgan coming over to take photos—the three of us in our natural element, nothing about it staged except for the way I took extra time doing my hair and makeup because I wasn’t looking for people to comment on how much older I am than him.
All the positive comments in the post almost make me forget that we lost Game 2 in St. Louis. But then my eyes land on the most recent comment, and I hiss out a breath. Even though I love the photos, and a lot of other people clearly do too, there are still trolls emerging in the comment section.
“Delete and block,” Morgan reminds me, and I glance up to see her watching me closely. I’m sure she knows exactly the kind of shit I’m reading by the way I froze up just now, and the sigh I let out in response. “You don’t owe anyone—especially not someone who doesn’t even know you—the luxury of posting shit about you online.”
“People are entitled to their opinions, unfortunately. Even when they’re wrong.” I set my phone between us on my desk, so I won’t be tempted to keep checking the notifications.
“But they’re not entitled to post them on your profile. Delete. And. Block.” Her voice is decisive and commanding. “Do you want me to take over your social media for the next few days, just to keep an eye on it, reply to comments, delete the shitheads—that type of thing?”
“That’s something you can do?”
“Yeah, it’s part of what you’re paying me for. I do the same thing for Jules and Audrey with their business account.”
“That would be amazing. Honestly, it’s validating to see all the likes and the positive comments, but I don’t need to see the negative shit. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make me question the relationship, or whether it was the right decision to go public.”
There are two quick knocks on my door, and my assistant, Colleen, cracks it open enough to slide half her body through it. “Uhh, McCabe’s here to see you.” She eyes Morgan sitting across from me, and I get the sense that she hadn’t wanted to interrupt us, but he forced her hand.
“Send him in,” I tell her.
“I told you she wouldn’t mind.” His voice comes from the other side of the door as he pushes it open and strides right past her. “Morgan,” he says, nodding at her as he comes around my desk and bends to plant a kiss on the top of my head.
Across the room, Colleen shuts the door.
“Have you seen this news?” he asks, holding his phone out to me. On the screen is a headline from Boston’s sports news network.
NHL Commissioner Refuses Jones’s Withdrawal from GM of the Year Award
My breath catches, and I have to clear my throat. “What the hell is this?”
“Apparently, you and Connelly are both still in the running for the award.”
“I don’t understand how that’s even possible. I withdrew.”
“Can you voluntarily withdraw?” Morgan asks, arching an eyebrow as she looks at us.
“If I don’t think I deserve the award, why couldn’t I?”
“ Do you think you don’t deserve it?” McCabe asks. “After everything you’ve done this season, do you really believe that us being together means you don’t deserve that award?”
I glance down at my lap, then look up at him. “No.”
“Well, apparently, the other GMs and the league officials agree with you,” he says.
“Take this for the immense compliment it is,” Morgan says. “And we probably need to respond on social media. I’ll work on that today.”
“We’re not responding publicly until I understand how this happened,” I tell her, shaking my head. I’m so caught off guard, I don’t even know how to react.
“What do you mean?” McCabe asks as he comes around to the far side of my desk and takes the seat next to Morgan.
That’s when my phone rings, and the name of the Commissioner of the NHL appears on my screen. All three of us sit there, staring at my phone buzzing where it lies face up on my desk. Morgan’s eyes are huge, because although this job is the first she’s had in the sports industry, her dad is a big hockey agent and even she knows who Timothy O’Leary is.
“You going to get that?” McCabe asks, amusement in his tone.
I grab for the phone, standing as I walk over to the wall of windows overlooking the rink. Practice is over, but there are kids’ lessons going on right now, and I watch them as I answer.
“AJ!” Tim’s greeting is friendly and full of excitement. “I suspect you’ve heard the news?”
“Yeah, and I’m pretty shocked. How exactly did this happen?”
“Well, none of us on the committee felt like you didn’t deserve the nomination. So even though you thought you could withdraw yourself from contention, we don’t accept your withdrawal.”
“Does Joey Connelly have something to do with this?” What I’m really wondering is if Joey doesn’t want to win this year by default, just because the other two nominees withdrew.
“All I’m going to say about that is that he’s one of your staunchest supporters.”
My chest aches with the realization that my mentor, the man who first hired me as a scout, then promoted me to being his assistant GM, before ultimately pushing me to move forward in my career, is proud of me.
“This really isn’t just because he doesn’t want to win by default?”
Tim’s deep, low chuckle fills the line before he assures me. “I can’t tell you anything that Joey told me in confidence. So I will just say, he doesn’t question whether you deserve this. And you shouldn’t either.”
T he stands are completely packed before Game 4, our second home game in the finals, and I know the fans are all hoping for a win tonight. Being down 2-1, after losing Game 3 at home two nights ago, puts our team in a less than ideal position. I’m hoping to check in on Wilcott’s pre-game pep talk before the guys hit the ice.
But as I round the corner into the hallway leading to the locker rooms, I almost run into Chet. There’s no one else around to hear him ranting as he holds his phone in front of his mouth.
“You need to fucking handle it. What do you expect me to do from Boston?”
“I’m not asking you to handle anything,” the woman’s voice is quiet, and the hurt is evident in her tone. I can’t help but wonder why he thinks this is an appropriate conversation to have on speakerphone. “I just wanted a little support from my husband.”
“We’re about to start the fucking game, and you want a goddamn pep-talk because your sister canceled on girls’ night again?”
“I forgot about the time change,” she says, her voice even smaller and more defeated.
I really don’t want to be here for this conversation. But I need to be in that locker room and he’s standing in my way. I’m just glad that his back is to me and he hasn’t seen me yet.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” He says it as though she disgusts him—the exact opposite of the pep talk it sounds like she was looking for. “I’ve done nothing but try to provide a good life for you, and it’s never enough.”
“You know that’s not it. You’ve provided a great life for me and the kids. It’s just?—”
“I have to go.” He cuts her off. “We’re flying home tonight after the game, so I hope you’re in a better mood when I get back in the morning.”
I don’t know why I’m angry on this woman’s behalf. She knew he was married to me when she started sleeping with him, so I want to believe she got what she deserved. But does anyone really deserve an asshole who love bombs you, only to turn around and treat you like shit once he’s locked you down? Didn’t I fall for the same man? He can be awfully convincing when he’s wooing you.
He steps up to the visiting team’s locker room, and as he reaches out toward the door, I hope that he will enter without realizing that I overheard his phone call. But as luck would have it, he pauses, arm outstretched and hand flat against the door. And then he turns his head, looking down the hall at me.
“How long have you been standing there?” It’s an accusation more than a question.
“Long enough to see that tigers don’t change their stripes.” My mirthless laugh slips out, even though I don’t mean it to.
“Still a superior bitch, I see.” Dropping his arm, he turns toward me.
“I feel bad for your wife,” I tell him. The only thing I truly regret in life are the years I wasted on him. “Maybe one day, she’ll have the courage to divorce you too. Because there’s nothing and no one who can make an unsuccessful narcissist like you happy.”
A nervous energy courses through me as I go to move past him, intent on seeing my team. When he grabs my arm, I’m prepared and easily spin out of his grip, but I wish I hadn’t engaged with him in the first place. I don’t feel safe down here with him. Even though we’re in a public place, there’s no one else around until the teams leave the locker rooms about ten minutes from now.
“I’m not unsuccessful,” he sputters, small pieces of spit flying from his lips.
I cross my arms over my chest, resting my cast on my good arm. “It’s been over seven years since we divorced, and you just got back the job you lost then. You’re unhappily married, look about ten years older than you are, and from what I hear,” I say, thinking of the rumors that have been circulating over the last week, “your team hates you. So congrats, you’re super successful.”
“I would be if it weren’t for you!”
“Yeah, I’m the problem. Sure.” I nod at Chet as I see Joey Connelly turn into the hall behind him, probably coming to see his team like I’ve come to see mine. I focus my eyes back on Chet, because I don’t want him to know Joey is there. I’d prefer to let his GM see his true colors.
“You fucking bitch,” Chet seethes. “You think you walk on fucking water, but now that everyone knows you’re just a little slut for your players, let’s see what the rest of your career looks like. At least if you get that award, everyone will know that it’s really for your ‘service.’” He uses a crude hand gesture to indicate that the ‘service’ he’s referring to is something sexual.
I watch Joey’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead when he sees the gesture Chet just made off to his side, but nothing about this interaction phases me. This is exactly how he talked to me when we were married—like an entitled little prick any time things didn’t go his way.
I’m not shocked that he hasn’t changed. It makes me happier than ever that I got out of that marriage when I did, and even more thankful to have found a man who treats me right.
“The thing is, Chet, I never cared about that award in the first place. I only ever cared about leading this team without reproach. And regardless of what you think about my relationship with McCabe, that’s exactly what I’ve done. Whether we win or lose the Cup, and even if I don’t get that award, I’m proud of the work I’ve done in Boston. I’m even more proud of my team, and how they’ve played. And nothing you do or say is going to change that.”
Chet’s scoff is so loud I’d be surprised if they didn’t hear it inside the locker room. “Yeah, sure! Better run along,” he says, nodding toward the door to the Rebels locker room. “There are probably players in there that need blow jobs before the game.”
From behind him, Joey asks, “Is that what you think I plan to do when I go into our locker room?”
Chet’s jaw tightens because he knows he’s just been caught acting incredibly unprofessional. Something that only one person—McCabe—has ever truly seen him doing before. “Connelly,” Chet says, turning halfway so he stands between us. He’s using that schmoozing voice he only uses with other guys, his upper-crust version of bro-talk, I guess. “Didn’t know you were down here.”
“Clearly.” The muttered word is dry and unimpressed. He’s not falling for Chet’s attempts to downplay his behavior. “So? Is that why you think I’m down here? To give our players blow jobs?”
The fact that he utters this question without a hint of embarrassment, amusement, or anger leaves me wondering how he’s feeling about what Chet just said.
“No.” Chet laughs it off, and just the sound of his voice has my stomach turning. “Of course not. Unlike Alessandra here, you’re not involved with your players like that.”
“From what I’ve seen, AJ is in a committed relationship with a man who is nothing but respectful toward her. Unlike your behavior just now.”
“She’s fucking one of her players!” Chet sputters, incensed that Joey isn’t taking his side here.
“What business of yours is that?” he asks, and I could not love his no-nonsense approach toward my ex-husband any more than I do. When Chet doesn’t immediately respond, he says, “Especially since you went sticking your dick elsewhere when you were married to her.”
It’s only then that I realize that Joey, happily married for the past twenty years and having witnessed the dissolution of my and Chet’s marriage, is completely on my side. He didn’t show all his cards when we both worked in St. Louis, but now I understand that this is at least part of why he agreed to send Chet down to the AHL, and keep him there for nearly seven years.
“That’s different,” Chet insists.
“Why?” Joey asks, raising his eyebrows toward Chet like he’s offering him an opportunity to defend himself, even while we both know he can’t.
“Because she put her job before our marriage.”
“Did she?” Joey asks. “Or did she just have a more important job than you, and you were jealous?
“My job was important too!”
God he sounds like a fucking toddler, and I can tell Joey’s thinking something similar by the way he’s clearly trying not to laugh.
“You were an assistant coach,” Joey reminds him, “and completely replaceable. Even now, you’re replaceable. In fact, your services are no longer needed.”
“But,” Chet stutters, “we have a game.”
“And somehow I think the other coaches will manage without you.”
“It’s the playoffs. You can’t head into this game short one coach.” Chet’s eyes flick to me, as if this situation is my fault. Over the years, I’d occasionally wondered if he ever learned how to take accountability for his actions instead of blaming everyone else. Apparently not.
“Watch me,” Joey replies, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“You can’t do this,” Chet says, eyes wide with rage and bewilderment. “I have a contract.”
“Yes, and you’re an at-will employee. Seems I no longer have the will to employ you.”
“You’re doing this because of her .”
His glare has absolutely no effect on me. I just cross my arms and sigh. “Chet, grow the fuck up. Learn to accept responsibility for your actions, and just...stop being such a shitty person. Go crawl back home to your wife and hope she forgives you for losing your job by being an asshole. Again.”
Once Chet’s stormed off, Joey turns to me, clasping my biceps in each of his hands and giving me a supportive squeeze. “At the risk of sounding like a patronizing old man...I’m proud of you. The way you left, moved on, and did so much more with your life once you rid yourself of him, the way you’ve led this organization,” he says, letting his gaze roam around the hallway of our home arena. “You deserve all the good things coming your way.”
“About that,” I say with a smile. “Pretty sure I withdrew from that award nomination...”
“Pretty sure you deserve it anyway,” he says, giving me a wink before he turns and heads into his team’s locker room.
I take a deep breath and exhale, letting the tension go as a deep sense of peace washes over me. Whatever happens in this game—in this series—I’m proud of this team. And I’m proud of myself, too.