Cross-Checked (Boston Rebels #3)

Chapter 41

Chapter Forty-One

AJ

T he crowd in the locker room before Game 7 is unlike any I’ve ever seen. Normally, Charlie likes to keep it just coaches, players, me, and occasionally Frank. But because the GM of the Year announcement will be made during tonight’s pre-game programming, the large TV on the wall of the visitors’ locker room is on, and every member of the Rebels organization who has traveled to St. Louis for the final game is standing here in this huge semicircle that extends around the perimeter of the room.

In the middle of the room are two cameramen on their knees, with their cameras pointing at me. Behind me is the same reporter from the press conference a month ago—the one who asked our then-surly captain about fighting in the stands. It makes me realize that I never gave him the opportunity to make that right.

On my left , Ronan has had a tight grip on my hand since they said they’d be back with the announcement after the commercial break. On my right, Lauren’s arm is linked with mine.

I’m trying not to let the pressure of the series or the award get to me, but I feel like I’m strung so tight I’m about to burst.

“Relax,” he whispers, low and dragged out in the same way he might say it if he were sliding into me, and my thighs clench in response.

“Not helping,” I mutter, and his low rumble of laughter tells me he knows exactly what that word has done to me.

Dropping his voice even lower, he leans over and says into my ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of you later tonight.”

I don’t have time to respond before the programming starts back up and a hushed silence falls over the room as we watch the compilation video highlighting each GM’s journey and the reasons we were nominated for the award. Joey is first, and I’m as proud of my mentor now as I have been the other three times he’s been nominated. When they get to me, I’m listening but not watching.

Instead, I’m looking around the room, keeping an eye on my players and coaching staff, and I’m beyond proud to see the way they are all nodding along with the list of strategic moves I made throughout this season to give us the best chance of getting to the exact place we are right now—about to play in the final game, hoping for the honor of bringing home the Cup.

My hand squeezes Ronan’s so tightly I’m afraid I might actually be hurting him. It’s not about the award; I just want to make the men and women in this room proud.

“And this year’s General Manager of the Year...is Alessandra Jones of the Boston Rebels!”

In the second that follows, I close my eyes and press my lips between my teeth, willing myself not to cry. I know that the cameras are on me, and the last thing I want hockey fans to see is a woman at the pinnacle of her career crying about it on national TV.

But when Ronan sweeps me into his arms and spins me around, when the people who love and support me crowd around me with their congratulations, I can’t stop the few tears that escape. Wiping them away, I accept all the hugs and congratulations until a camera is shoved into my face and the female reporter steps up next to me.

“Can you tell us what receiving this award means to you?” she asks me.

“It means she’s amazing,” Colt yells, and I can’t help the small laugh that bubbles from my lips as I gently wipe any moisture from under my eyes.

“Honestly, it’s just an honor to get to do what I do every day,” I say. “And to be recognized for it in this way, by my colleagues and the league and the media—it’s the honor of a lifetime. But now the work begins again. We have a game to play, and fans who are counting on us to bring home the second Cup this decade.”

Cheers rise up around the room and I turn away from the cameras, signaling that the interview is over. There will be an awards night later this month where I’ll have to give an actual speech, but right now, the focus needs to be on this game.

The press is ushered out of the room, and most of the Rebels staff leaves too, until it’s just Charlie and the other coaches, the players, Frank, and me. Charlie doesn’t give his normal pre-game pep talk. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “We’ve played six games against St. Louis. We’ve won half and they’ve won half. I don’t need to go over their strengths or their weaknesses—you already know them. What I do want to tell you before you take the ice tonight is that you are the better team. You deserve this win. But it will only happen if every single one of you goes out there and gives it your all for the next sixty minutes of play. No distractions. No mistakes. Do. Your. Job.”

With that, he claps his hand against his clipboard, quickly glances at his phone, and tells the men to line up. As they do, he whispers something to his assistant coach, Lloyd, and steps out the door. He never leaves the locker room before our players, and goosebumps prickle the back of my neck as I watch the door close behind him.

Lloyd makes a few more comments that I’m only half listening to, and then he holds the door open, fist bumping every player on their way out. Colt and Hartmann bring up the rear, and I follow behind them.

Charlie is halfway down the hall, his clipboard tucked between his elbow and his ribs as he holds the phone to his ear with one hand, and presses a finger against his other ear. I see the worry on his face when he looks up and his eyes meet mine.

“Okay. Keep me posted,” he says into the phone. “I love you too.”

“Everything okay?” I ask, coming to a stop in front of him as he pockets his phone, just as the line of players finish filing by.

“Eva just was sent to the hospital. Helene is flying to New York?—”

“Wait!” Hartmann says, spinning back around to face us. “What’s wrong with Evie?”

My eyebrows dip. I know the Wilcotts and Hartmanns are family friends, but the concern in his voice borders on panic.

“We don’t know yet,” Charlie tells him. “She was rushed to the ER during the layover on her flight back from Europe. I’m sure everything’s going to be fine. Now get out there.”

The worry in Charlie’s tone doesn’t imply that he’s sure his daughter is okay. In response, Hartmann nods then slowly turns around, and I watch his shoulders tense as he walks to the back of the line of his teammates.

Making a mental note to check in with Charlie about Eva after the game, I head in the opposite direction to meet up with Nicholas and Abby. I find them at ice level, with most of the families waiting to see the players during warmups, and Abby’s wearing the infant-sized McCabe jersey we got her for the occasion.

When Ronan sees us there, he skates over and taps the glass to get Abby’s attention. She’s got small, pink noise-canceling earmuffs on, but when she sees him there, she starts kicking her feet in excitement, and her face splits into a huge smile. She’s got four teeth now, and a never-ending volume of drool, so I take the cloth hanging out of Nicholas’s back pocket and wipe her chin. When she turns her head to look at me, her smile grows wider.

Glancing up, I see that Ronan is looking down at me from the other side of the glass, nothing but love in his eyes as he shifts his gaze between me and our baby.

Our. I don’t know that I’ve ever used that word in relation to Abby, but it feels right. She and Ronan are mine...the family I never thought I’d have.

God, not having to hide this anymore is the best feeling in the world.

I can’t wait until later tonight when I can show him the custom tank top I’m wearing under this suit coat tonight. As GM, I can’t show up in his jersey to a game. But I can have Jules make me an incredibly sexy top with the number 9 sewn onto the back, and I can have her make me a matching thong. And most importantly, I can model them both for him in the privacy of our bedroom, before he strips them off me and takes care of me like only he can.

As if he can read my mind and already knows about my plans for later tonight, his pupils dilate while his eyes focus on my lips. The ever-present hunger is written across his face, like it is any time he sees me.

“Knock it off,” Nicholas mutters from beside me as he watches us. “No one needs to see this.”

I shake my head slightly as I snap back to reality. He’s right, of course—not here, at work.

“Good luck,” I tell Ronan. “You’ve got this.”

He gives me a wink, blows Abby a kiss, and skates back to his teammates.

W e’re up 3-2 heading into the third period, and so far, it feels like things are going our way. We’re in sync, playing a clean, strong game while St. Louis has made some sloppy mistakes. For the first half of the last period, as I watch our team play their hearts out, I’m feeling great about our chances. Rather than feeling dread whenever St. Louis takes a shot, I let the confidence wash over me. We’ve got this.

And then, it all goes to shit.

Colt goes for a fake shot, and when he realizes his mistake, he plants his skate and pushes off the blade to dive across the crease, sticking his glove out and miraculously catching the puck.

The Rebels fans breathe out a sigh of relief...until Colt doesn’t get up off the ice. The refs skate over to him and then nod toward our bench, and that’s when it’s clear he’s injured. He’s pulling off his glove and blocker, and I glance up at the Jumbotron where the camera has zoomed in on him as he pulls off his mask, and his face is twisted in pain. A few seats down from me, Jules gasps.

“No,” she whimpers, “no, no, no.” On either side of her, Lauren and Audrey plant their hands on her thighs for support, and my heart sinks because I can imagine how she feels. Wanting to rush down the steps, jump the glass, and slide across the ice to him—because it’s exactly how I’d feel if it were Ronan.

My eyes scan the players, and when I find him standing next to Drew at center ice, he’s looking at me, too. Then Walsh nudges him with the end of his stick and he turns back to talk to his teammates. They don’t hide their worried looks as Colt grasps his right knee. The trainers come out onto the ice to evaluate him, splint his leg, and help him skate off.

When Hartmann goes in, and I can tell something isn’t right.

The rest of the game is like watching a train wreck, and my body is plagued with wave after wave of nausea as I watch my team fall apart before my eyes.

Hartmann looks like a goalie we just pulled up from the beer league. Our defensemen aren’t doing their job keeping the puck away out of our defensive zone, and shot after shot is fired on Hartmann. He stops the first two, barely, and then one slips between the pipes. Then another, and another.

Before I know it, we’re in the last two minutes of the game, and trailing by two goals. Drew manages to score, bringing us back to life, and the team rallies, threatening St. Louis’s net for the rest of the game...until one of their forwards gets a hold of it and takes off on a breakaway.

He moves right and fakes the shot, and as Hartmann butterflies down to block it, the player takes the puck behind the net and easily slips it into the goal on Hartmann’s opposite side.

When the final buzzer sounds, St. Louis’s players stream onto the ice in celebration, while we hang our heads in shock and dismay. Our fans stand still, stunned, all of us collectively wondering what the hell just happened.

I would expect nothing less from our players than the classy way they line up to shake hands with the other team, despite how the game fell apart so dramatically.

In the weeks to come, I know that we’ll analyze the third period of this game over and over. Even as I immediately start focusing on how we can learn from this game, my heart breaks at the way our players, my players, file off the ice, heads hung low.

The victory lap around the rink with each player taking their turn holding the Cup...that should have been us. And maybe next year, it will be.

I take a deep breath, remembering how these men protected my honor, intelligence, and integrity, and cheered for me every step of the way this season. Now, it’s my turn to support them by identifying the cracks that emerged, and fixing them so we can move on to the next season even stronger than we are now.