2. Amelia
TWO
AMELIA
NOVEMBER, SEVEN SEASONS AGO
If there was an award given to the woman with the most patience, it would be mine for the taking.
No competition, no questions asked. I’d be walking away from this disaster of a dinner with a shiny trophy, the engraving at the base reading I survived the worst date of all time.
It wouldn’t be enough compensation for the damages I’ve accrued tonight.
“So.” The man sitting across the table looks me up and down. He chews his bite of spaghetti with his mouth open, and I try not to gag. “What did you say you did for work?”
“I’m in charge of a group of individuals.” I smooth my hands over my jeans. My tolerance for small talk is dwindling by the second. “I’m third in command, and I make sure they’re performing up to their potential.”
“That’s vague. What kind of money do you make?”
Ignoring the incredibly forward question would be reasonable, but giving in will make a better story for my friends. I decide to flash him a smile I wish were full of daggers.
“Decent enough. Six figures.”
“Huh.” His attention moves to the TV hanging near the bar at the Italian restaurant where he insisted on meeting me.
Best marinara in the city, he boasted, and it’s comical how wrong he is.
Heartburn inducing is more like it. “God. I hate hockey. I used to be a fan, but the league has gotten soft over the years.”
Contain the eye twitch, Amelia.
“How so?” I ask.
“Hiring women as coaches and general managers? The whole pride tape thing? I want to watch sports, not have political shit thrown in my face, you know?”
“No.” I bat my eyelashes like I’m intrigued by his misogynistic opinion. “Tell me more.”
“It’s a men’s league. Always has been.”
“Except for Manon Rhéaume, the goaltender who played for the Lightning in two preseason games.”
“Yeah, and look how long she lasted.” Douchebag Extraordinaire snorts.
I’m contemplating whether a butter knife is sharp enough to slice a man’s throat.
It has to do some damage, right? “The women coming into the league aren’t more qualified than the men.
It’s a check in the box. A quota the teams are trying to fill to look inclusive.
Play the sport, and shut up about the rest.”
“Interesting.” I gesture to the television where Los Angeles has a one-goal lead over New York. “NHL teams with women in executive roles produce a better record than the ones with men in governor positions.”
“Probably nepotism. Handed down from someone who did the job better than them, and they are riding the coattails of success.” His attention moves back to me. “You care a lot about this shit.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty passionate about not being a sexist pig.” I reach into my purse and search for some cash. After dropping three twenties on the table, I push back in my chair, standing. “If you’ll excuse me, I need the restroom. I’m ill, and I won’t be returning. Have a good night.”
I dodge a waitress and make my way to the bathroom. When I’m safely inside, I slip into a stall. I lock the door behind me and start a timer.
Five minutes.
I’ll stay in here for five minutes before I head back into the restaurant, find a spot at the bar, and ask for a slice of key lime pie to go. I was eyeing it when we were ordering, and I deserve a treat after suffering through whatever the hell that was.
Admittedly, I don’t date much. It always comes with questions and opinions after the men I meet learn I’m an assistant coach for the Denver Goldminers.
Being the first female coach in the NHL comes with perks, absolutely.
Seeing girls wear my jersey, being told I’m changing the league, and speaking on panels that promote diversity across professional sports are rewards I dreamed about when I first picked up a stick.
But there are challenges too. I get asked for tickets or lineup advice so a guy can cash out on his parlay.
There are jokes about how many of the players I’ve slept with—zero, a vow I took when I signed my first contract—or how many of them want to sleep with me—zero again, I hope, given I’m the one torturing them with never-ending drills.
When I’m lucky enough to find a man who doesn’t care about sports or hockey and is unbothered by a career that takes me across the country for a week at a time and out of the house for nine months of the year, there’s always a conversation about success.
About power, and how they don’t like that I seem to have a lot of it.
I learned a long time ago not to dull my accomplishments for anyone, and that includes mediocre men who think they’re worthy of a second of my time.
My timer goes off and I smile, exiting the stall. I wash my hands and head back to the restaurant, glad to find the man of the hour has left. All the seats at the bar are taken, so I turn for the hostess stand to place my dessert order.
As I pass the graveyard of another deeply disappointing social interaction, a hand on my arm stops me. A warm touch, long fingers. A jolt pulses through me when I glance at the man occupying the table behind mine.
His dark brown hair is messy and wavy, and his brown eyes are bright. There’s a youthfulness to his face, a smile I haven’t seen since I passed my mid-twenties and stopped giving a shit what people thought about me.
“Can I help you?” I ask, staring at the press of his fingers on my forearm.
“Sorry to stop you. I wanted you to know your date was—” He clears his throat. His smile stretches into a grin before his eyes widen. “Oh my god. Are you Amelia Green?”
“I am. Do I know you?”
“Holy shit.” His hand falls from my arm and he pops to his feet. “I’m Grant. Grant Everett. The rookie drafted by the DC Stars? Third line right winger?” He follows it up with a laugh. “I don’t know why I’m saying that. There’s no chance you know who I am.”
“Grant Everett. Right.” I nod. His name and face are vaguely familiar, and I assess him.
I’m five eleven in my sneakers, and he’s shorter than me.
Not as muscular as some of the guys I coach, like he hasn’t filled out his frame yet.
He’s stuck between lanky and broad, but a couple of years in an NHL weight room will bulk him right up.
“I’m sorry. I make a point of recognizing players on the ice, not off of it. Conflict of interest, you know?”
“Absolutely.” Grant bobs his head. “But pretend I’m not a hockey player right now. I overheard the guy you were sitting with—it was hard not to—and it’s my moral obligation to let you know he’s a fucking idiot.”
My lips twitch with a smile. “He is, isn’t he?”
“It took a lot of self-restraint to stay out of your conversation, and I deserve a medal for keeping my mouth shut. The things I wanted to say would have gotten me in a shitload of trouble.”
“Funny. I was thinking I deserve an award for suffering as long as I did.”
“You do.” He rubs the back of his neck. His eyes bounce to the empty seat at his table. “Can I buy you a drink to make up for your shitty night?”
“That’s kind of you, but I have a no-fraternization policy with anyone in the league. I don’t want there to be any misplaced ideas of what my intentions are with players.”
“Of course. I understand. For the record, I didn’t mean it like that. No offense or anything,” he hurries to add, and his cheeks turn red. “I meant as a friend. Or more like an admirer of your game. I’m, um, a fan. A big fan. I’ve watched your Wisconsin highlights a thousand times.”
That makes me pause.
The days of my collegiate career are long gone. People know Wisconsin is where I got my start, but all anyone wants to talk about is my rise to the NHL. They forget about my years as a player and the skills I perfected that led me down the coaching pipeline.
I’m under an immense amount of scrutiny at all times, but as I look around the restaurant, it’s obvious the other diners aren’t paying attention to us. They don’t care who I might be. When I lower myself into the available chair, I’m awarded with a bright beam.
Crinkled eyes, the scrunch of his nose. A hint of a dimple on his cheek and a full set of teeth.
Grant Everett is an objectively attractive man, and the faint echo of an alarm begins to sound.
“This is a work conversation,” I say, shutting the noise out. “That’s all.”
“Means it’s a tax write-off. Even better.”
“You’ve watched my highlights? Why?”
“Because you’re good.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“I’m not saying it to be complimentary. Well, I am. But it’s the truth. Player to player.”
“You mentioned you’re a rookie.” I wince. “Please tell me you’re older than eighteen.”
“I’m twenty-one,” he says. “I graduated high school early. Went to FSU and played on their club team. Somehow managed to get drafted by the Stars where I survived training camp and earned a spot on the roster.” Grant shrugs.
“To be honest, I’m waiting for someone to tell me all of this is a mistake and I don’t deserve to be here. ”
I smile. He’s humble. Someone who must have skills to have gotten this far, but he’s also had to work hard to prove himself. There’s no ego, and I’ve always loved the scrappy athletes.
“Speaking of honesty, I don’t hear enough complimentary things about my game. Feel free to keep gushing if you want.”
“Next time.” He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to spend the few minutes I have with you acting like a fanboy.”
“Hang on. You said you’re on the Stars? That means we’re playing you tomorrow.”
“You are.”
“Why are you out by yourself the night before a game?”
“Curfew isn’t until ten, and I have a weird superstition.”
“A weird superstition.” I lean forward and lift an eyebrow. “You know you’re obligated to tell me, right?”
“Our team dinners on the road are pretty generic. They’re delicious, but my mom used to make spaghetti the night before a game. Marinara sauce. Tons of parmesan cheese.” He gestures around the restaurant. “It’s why I picked this place.”
“And garlic bread, I’m guessing?” I point to the half-eaten loaf in the center of the table. “I wouldn’t worry. It could be weirder.”
“You’re right. I could dip spaghetti in ranch dressing.” Grant lifts his plate and shows off the condiment in a glass jar next to a pile of noodles. “I swear this is my most unusual quirk.”
“At least you’re not a douchebag like my unfortunate date.” I smirk. “Don’t think sitting here with me is going to make me ask my team to take it easy on you tomorrow, by the way.”
“I wouldn’t dare. The Stars have had a rough couple of years, but Brody Saunders is coaching us now.
Maverick Miller is on pace to have a great season.
I really like Liam Sullivan in goal.” He snaps his mouth shut.
“But we’re supposed to be talking about you.
Three more minutes, and I would’ve given away all of our secrets. ”
“You might be easily manipulated, Everett.” I put in an order for a slice of key lime pie to go when the server comes over. “How have you liked being in the big leagues?”
“It’s great, but it’s an adjustment. My path looks different from most of my teammates. I have less experience than a lot of the guys out there. I’m fighting for a roster spot every time I take the ice.”
“Players who recognize they’re in the hot seat perform better. You don’t take days off. You show up to practice and games ready to work as hard as you can to keep your dream alive. I’d pick that player every time.”
“I appreciate that. Thanks, Amelia. Coach Green. Um.” He pulls at his collar. “Do you have a preference?”
“Amelia is fine.” His bashfulness is endearing. I don’t know the last time I talked to someone who wasn’t sure of themselves, and I switch gears. “How do you like Denver in November?”
“I’ve never been a fan of snow, so I’m glad the weather is cooperating. Can’t complain too much.”
“Not a fan of snow? DC is going to be a rude awakening.”
“I know.” Grant laughs. “I’m more of a shorts guy, but I’m hoping the cooler climate grows on me.”
“That’s the nice thing about being an athlete.” The server brings me a paper bag, and I scribble out my signature on the receipt with a tip. “You can always request a trade to somewhere warm.”
“True, but I like what we have going on in DC. I want to stick around for a while.”
“In that case, I’m rooting for you, Everett.” I stand. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I’m glad we got to talk.” Grant blinks up at me with long eyelashes and a nose that hasn’t been broken yet. “Hopefully it’s not the last time.”
I make it out to the sidewalk and take a deep breath, glad the night took a turn for the better. I glance over my shoulder, and I find Grant watching me through the large restaurant window.
He dips his chin, and I can tell his cheeks are red even from here. I shuffle past a couple sharing a cigarette and blame the swoop in my stomach on the dessert in my hand, not the dimpled hockey player whose attention I can feel long after I start the walk home.