6. Amelia
SIX
AMELIA
MARCH, SIX SEASONS AGO
DC is one of my favorite places to visit, especially this time of year.
Tourists aren’t out in full force yet. The cherry blossoms will bloom soon. The air is cool but the sun is bright, and the unseasonably warm temperature makes being outside tolerable. I can run around the National Mall without working up a sweat.
It’s perfect.
I pause my workout to take a sip of my drink by the Lincoln Memorial. A young girl pedals toward me on a bike with no training wheels, and I shift out of her way. She wobbles to the side, but a man is there to catch her, narrowly avoiding hitting me in the process.
“Sorry about that,” he calls out.
“No problem,” I say, knowing that won’t ever be my life.
I won’t ever teach anyone how to ride a bike. There won’t be any first steps or hearing someone’s first words. No Mother’s Day cards or matching pajamas at Christmas.
I spent most of my twenties listening to my older sister describe the love she feels whenever she’s with her children. I waited to see if the desire to have kids of my own would ever creep up, but the feeling has never come.
It never will, and I’m okay with that.
I love my job. Coaching is what I want to do for the rest of my life. I thrive in the chaos of figuring out a player’s strength and watching hours of game film. I find joy in the down-to-the-wire plays and overtime wins.
What’s next for me outside of work is the uncertain part. I went on a handful of dates in July and August, each more disastrous than the last. No one made it to a second meetup, and I keep wondering if there’s something wrong with me.
I’m not disappointed by the romantic slump. I’m not hell-bent on finding someone to settle down with. Things don’t work out, and I’m fine. No tears. No social media stalking to figure out if he’s ghosting me because he’s married with a family.
Craving independence should bother me, but it doesn’t. I’m not scared to be alone. At the end of the day, maybe I’m just not meant to be a partner or a mother. Maybe I put too much energy into other parts of my life, and the well for personal connections is dry.
I’m perfectly at peace with coming home to an empty apartment. I have weekly dinners with Lainey and Sienna. I have my routines, and I’m happy.
That’s all that matters.
I pocket my water bottle in my running belt. I get in the zone as I start back up, only to run into something solid a few yards ahead. I fling out an arm to stop myself from tumbling into the Reflecting Pool, but fingers wrap around my wrist before I can go for a swim.
A gentle tug. A palm on my elbow. I’m guided away from the water and back to the graveled path, upright, dry, and out of breath.
“Are you okay?” a low voice asks. “Amelia?”
I squint through my sunglasses and find Grant Everett staring at me. Mouth half parted and eyes wide, my surprise probably mirrors his.
“Grant?” I blow out an exhale, coming down from the high of the last fifteen seconds. “What are you doing here?”
“Coach canceled morning skate because a couple players have the stomach bug. Told us to go for a run instead.” His eyes bounce to my feet firmly planted on solid ground, and his hands fall away from their protective hold on my body.
“What are you doing here? We don’t play y’all until the day after tomorrow. ”
“We landed this morning after our game in Atlanta last night. The team has a rest day before our matchup with you on Thursday. Figured I’d get a workout in.”
“Want to run together?”
“Look.” I push my sunglasses up my nose. “I’m sure you’re a great guy, but I told you I don’t associate with men in the league off the ice.”
“Ah, shit. I didn’t think of how that would come across.
I understand.” Grant nods and tugs on the brim of his hat.
Some of his dark hair sneaks out by his ears, and it hits me how long it’s been since we last saw each other—a year at this point.
“Emmy Hartwell joined our team earlier this season, and I’ve seen firsthand how differently she’s treated because she’s a woman.
Reporters ask her different questions. Some of our opponents make comments about her under their breath.
It’s bullshit. I’d never want you to be painted in a bad light. ”
“Emerson. Yeah.” I smile. “Our publicity people set up a meet and greet for us tomorrow.”
Called up from the ECHL back in the fall, Emerson Hartwell is the first woman in NHL history to play in a regular season game. She signed a one-year contract with the Stars and has been kicking ass. Our game on Thursday will be the first time our paths cross this year.
“I like her a lot,” Grant says. “She works hard, and she’s funny as hell. Watching her put Maverick in his place is the highlight of my day.”
“That’s great.” My watch beeps, letting me know it’s time to start moving. “I should get going. Sorry for almost knocking you out.”
“No need to apologize. Glad I was in the right place at the right time. Here’s a thought: What if I run in the same direction, but five feet away? Technically, we’re not running together.”
I should tell him no. My brain is screaming at me to walk away, but he’s smiling in that goofy way I remember. He’s waiting patiently for me to answer, and I weigh my options.
He lives on the other side of the country. I see him twice a year when our teams play each other. There are some guys in the league I’m friendly with after going to college together, and we send the occasional text to check in.
It’s just a run, and when I look at Grant again, I decide thirty minutes with him can’t be the worst thing in the world. It’s two people existing in the same space, and that’s allowed.
“Okay,” I say, and he lights up.
“I’ll stop any other falls into the Reflecting Pool.” Grant taps his watch screen, and we veer onto a straightaway. “How long are you going for?”
“Another three miles or so. You’re not allowed to blame me if you’re tired on Thursday.”
“I’m twenty-two. I don’t get tired,” he says, and I fall into a jog next to him. “You’re thirty, right?”
“I am. My birthday is in August. What about you?”
“July. Never liked that I couldn’t celebrate with my classmates because we were on summer break.” He might be shorter than me, but his stride is long. He slows to match my pace. “Lots of pool parties as a kid.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Florida. Near Tallahassee. I didn’t spread my wings much when I went to FSU, and coming to DC and living on my own has been an experience. I like when we’re on the road. I get to share a room with Ethan Richardson, and it’s like having a sleepover every night.”
“What’s that like? I haven’t shared a room with anyone in years.”
“Makes the long stretches on the road less lonely.” He lifts his shirt to wipe a bead of sweat away from his cheek.
The move shows off abdominal muscles and a trail of dark hair on his stomach that disappears into his athletic shorts.
I focus my attention on the path ahead of us. “You’re from Wisconsin, right?”
“Born and raised. I did the same as you and didn’t venture far from home.”
“How did you make your way to the NHL? I know you coached in the NCAA.”
“You sure know a lot about me,” I say. “Should I be worried?”
“That I make an effort to know basic facts about you that a simple Wikipedia search would tell me? Maybe. But I’m not going to ask what middle school you went to or the name of your childhood pet. That requires too much digging. I have hockey to play, Amelia.”
“Marmalade.” My lips twitch. Being unashamed with his sleuthing is endearing. “She was a golden retriever, and she lived until she was sixteen.”
“Rest in peace to a real one.” Grant kisses his fingers and points to the sky. I burst out laughing. “I’ll have a drink in Marmalade’s honor tonight.”
“Thanks for the condolences ten years later. As far as my coaching history, I got an assistant offer from an ECHL team after two years with Wisconsin. Spent a year there before I went to the AHL for a few seasons. When the job in Denver opened up, I applied. It’s been a journey.
I’ve worked damn hard to get here, and I’m proud of how far I’ve come. ”
“I’ll say. You’re a legend, Green. It’s cool to see the impact you’re having.”
I almost trip when I glance his way. “What do you mean?”
“Between you and Emmy, women and young girls are coming to games. They’re wearing jerseys and picking up the sport.
I hope we see more women in the NHL—not just in office positions, but on the ice.
It would be great if we could diversify the sport too.
” His laugh is rich. “Think the rosters have enough straight, white dudes on them. It would be cool to bridge a connection with marginalized communities to make them feel like they have a place in the league too.”
The more he talks, the more I’m aware of the way my heart hammers, and I slow my pace in an attempt to steady myself.
“You really mean that, don’t you?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah?” His gaze meets mine. “Seems like wanting to make the sport more welcoming is the bare minimum.”
“I want to start a camp,” I find myself saying, “for girls who love hockey. A week-long program for all skating abilities and playing experiences. The NHL is a boys’ league, but it doesn’t have to be.
And with all this news about the PWHL starting in the next couple of years, I want to do what I can to empower the players of tomorrow.
Emmy is the first, and I hope she’s not the last.” We pass the Washington Monument, and I pause. “I’m making this about me, aren’t I?”
“You’re talking about what you’re passionate about. That’s not making things about you. I like listening, and it’s important stuff.”
“How’s the season going?” I check our pace on my watch, surprised by how quickly a mile passes. “Any February blues?”
“Not for me. I’m much more comfortable in my role than I was last year as a rookie.
We have a team dinner every week, and we also started a book club.
We read romance novels then talk about them, and it’s a lot of fun.
A nice way to unwind, you know?” Grant moves to the right to avoid getting hit by a kid on a skateboard, and his arm brushes against mine.
“What do you do to relax? Coaching is probably super stressful.”
“I like to drink wine with my best friends back in Denver, and eat the desserts I suck at making. My brownies never come out right, but at the end of the day, they still taste delicious.”
“You sound like Hudson, our defenseman. He loves food. Sweets in particular.”
“Hayes. I remember him missing our matchup last season for personal reasons.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Grant wipes his hand on his athletic shorts that hit his mid-thigh. “His mom passed away a few years ago. It was the anniversary of her death, and he flew home to Georgia to spend time with his dad.”
“Shit. I had no idea,” I whisper.
“Most people don’t. That’s Huddy for you. Always taking care of everyone else without letting anyone take care of him.”
“How devastating. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s sad, but it’s a reminder that we’re human, you know? Like, yeah, how we play is important, but we’re going to lose loved ones and go through breakups and struggle with our mental health, just like everyone else. And those things are allowed.”
“That’s a great point. My dad and I used to watch hockey together when I was younger, and I fawned over all of the great players of the nineties and early two-thousands.
Forsberg, Claude Lemieux, Oates. God, Jarome Iginla was fun to watch.
” I peel my hair away from where it’s sticking to my neck.
“I thought those guys were untouchable. They were superstars. Then I started playing. When I got to college, I had to balance being a student-athlete with my personal life. I struggled on tests. I lost friends, and now I see it every day when I’m coaching: You all aren’t superheroes immune to the perils of humanity.
You’re heroes who are super, but you suffer like the rest of us. We’re all out here trying our best.”
“It’s only getting worse with social media,” Grant says. “People have opinions about things they wouldn’t say to someone’s face, and it’s annoying as hell.”
“That’s so true.” I smile at him. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me.”
“I love to talk. Never know when to shut up, actually. So feel free to stop me at any time.” He leads us to the left, and I follow. “Do you have any plans the rest of the day? You caught us during a warm snap. Last week was freezing.”
“I might go to one of the museums. The other coaches and I are meeting for dinner tonight, but that’s not until eight.”
“Damn. By eight I’m getting ready for bed.”
“I thought you said you were twenty-two.” I put my hand on my hip. “You aren’t out partying until sunrise?”
“Sunrise? My god. I’d cry.” He checks his watch. “Are you hungry? It’s lunchtime.”
“I had a coffee earlier, and that should hold me over for a while.” My stomach picks that moment to growl, and I grimace. “I might be lying.”
“There’s a great sandwich shop nearby if you want to grab a bite. I’ll sit two tables over. No funny business.”
“I could eat. And you don’t have to sit two tables over. If anyone asks, I’m going to say you’re an annoying kid from Georgetown who won’t leave me alone.”
“A role I’ll take very seriously.” Grant hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “Race you there?”
I smirk. “I hope you’re ready to lose, Everett.”