Amelia
FIFTY-ONE
Lainey
Sienna
Knock them dead, darling.
Lainey
Let us know how it goes!
Sienna
Deep breaths and positive thoughts.
GE
I can’t wait to hear all about your interview later.
You’re going to do great, Lia.
If you finish early, I left a ticket for you at the box office for tonight’s game.
It’s under my sister’s name, and you’ll be in a suite. Figured that was the best solution for privacy.
I’m going to shut up now. I’m so proud of you. Good luck!
Emmy Hartwell
I heard a rumor that you’re in Baltimore to interview for the head coach position?!
Holy shit, Amelia!!
I’m not allowed to have favorites, but I’m crossing my fingers everything goes well today. Having you on the staff would be a DREAM.
“Thank you so much for taking the time to come out and talk with us.” Darcy Benderson, the owner of the Baltimore Sea Crabs, gestures for me to take an open seat at the conference room table. “How was your flight?”
“Not bad. And the hotel is wonderful. I appreciate the accommodations.” I glance around the boardroom with large windows and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Your arena is so impressive.”
“We have investors and minority owners who have a lot of belief in the program despite us being a new team. They want to make sure our athletes can perform at the highest level, and one way to do that is by providing world-class facilities.”
“I’m jealous of the weight room I saw on my tour. And the ice baths and sauna? I think that’s a first.”
“I’m here to win, and that means cultivating the best of the best, from the locker room layout to players and coaches,” Darcy says. “It’s going to take us a few years to establish a roster that will be consistently competitive in this league, but we’re going to make it happen. I’m sure of it.”
“Confidence is half the battle,” I say, and her lips turn up in a cunning smile.
“That’s why I asked to meet you. You’ve always been sure of yourself too.
” She drums her perfectly manicured nails on the table.
She can’t be much older than me, in her mid-thirties with gorgeous dark brown hair and sharp green eyes that tell me she’s comfortable being around influential people.
“I’m tired of the NHL being a men’s league.
My ex-husband owns the New York Thunder, the fucker, and I want to do everything in my power to remind him I belong in this space just as much as he does.
Recruiting Emerson Hartwell to play for the Sea Crabs was my top priority, and hiring you was my second priority. ”
Darcy opens a leather portfolio and slides a stack of papers my way.
“One thing you should know about me, Amelia, is that I get what I want. And I want you to be the head coach of this team. I’m aware you have a good thing going in Denver after last season’s Stanley Cup win, and I understand if you decide to stay with the Goldminers until the end of the season.
” She lifts her chin toward the papers. “That covers your base salary plus bonuses, a five-year plan for aggressive free agency signings and the cap space we’re working with.
Also included is the proposal for a PWHL team and our community engagement with current ticket sales numbers.
If there’s anything I didn’t include that will be pertinent to your decision, I can get it to you. ”
My throat goes dry as I scan the first sheet of the contract.
Darcy is offering me three million dollars a year, an unheard-of salary for a first-time coach. My hands shake as I run my finger down the page, words like guaranteed and commitment to a female-led organization jumping out at me.
It seems too good to be true.
“Darcy. This is unfathomable,” I say.
“I didn’t fly you here to do the generic bullshit interview where I ask you to tell me about a time when you felt like a leader.
I know your potential. You’re capable. Your track record speaks for itself, and I don’t care that you’ve never held a head coaching position before.
There’s room to learn, and we can do that together. ”
“I’m going to make mistakes. It’s going to take a while for the men in the locker room to trust me and see me as someone in a position of power,” I admit. “A year. Maybe two. I can’t promise the same camaraderie you’d get if you hired a man for the position, and I—”
“A man was coaching this team before, and the locker room didn’t respect him.” She tips her head and stares at me intently. “The players and training staff that come here know exactly what I hope to accomplish in Baltimore, and that includes bringing on a coach like you.”
“This offer is more than generous, and I want to make sure I do my due diligence with reviewing all the information you’ve presented to me. Can I get together with my agent before circling back with an answer?” I ask.
“Absolutely. My personal number is on the top of page one, so feel free to call or email me with any additional questions.” Darcy smiles. “We’d make a great team, Amelia.”
“I think we would too.” I match her smile and stand. She offers me her hand, and I’m not surprised by the firmness in her handshake. “I promise you’ll hear from me soon.”
We exchange a few more pleasantries, and I’m shown the location of my would-be office. The space offers a view of the Baltimore skyline and the baseball stadium a block away, and contentment settles between my shoulder blades as I head back to my hotel.
You belong there, a voice whispers, and I don’t try to shut it out.
After a quick text to my agent to set up a call tomorrow and run through the details of my meeting, I change into a pair of jeans. I put on a hat and slip my phone in my back pocket.
I should look over the logistics of the offer, but I’m bursting with energy. I don’t want to sit in my room all night. I want to see Grant and share the news with him.
At the Stars’ arena, I collect my ticket from the box office and scan it at the turnstiles out front.
The fans are decked out in Stars gear, and I smile at the security guard who blinks twice in my direction.
It’s as if he’s trying to place me, but I pass through the metal detector before he can connect the dots.
“Let’s go Stars!” someone chants, and the crowd answers with enthusiastic agreement.
Hopping off the elevator, I veer to the left. I flash my ticket to another security guard and shuffle into the line that will take me in the direction of my seat.
“Miller is out tonight,” the guy in front of me says to his friend. “A family issue or some other bullshit like that.”
“Why the fuck are they paying him that much money if he doesn’t want to play?” The man next to him groans. “That leaves, who? Everett to score? We’re going to lose by five goals.”
Protectiveness grips me.
I want to argue with them, to give them stats that disprove their assumption, but I bite my tongue.
I adjust the brim of my hat even lower, not wanting any sort of recognition while I eavesdrop.
Judging by their opinions on a player taking a night off for a personal issue, they’re shitty people who would find a way to argue about anything.
There’s another check of my ticket, and I’m ushered into my suite. I stop in my tracks at the food lining the walls. I find pancakes and meatball subs. An entire key lime pie and freshly popped popcorn. I spy a bottle of Chardonnay next to a pitcher of iced tea.
It’s all of my favorite things, and my grin bursts free while my eyes bounce around the rest of the room. The couches are made with dark leather. There’s a bouquet of sunflowers, roses, and hydrangeas sitting on the marble countertop, and I walk to it.
The small envelope next to the flowers catches my eyes. I open it and read the card inside.
A-
No matter what happens with Baltimore, I’ll always be proud of you. You’re a superstar, and I can’t wait to watch you soar.
-G
There’s a heart after his initial, and my own heart swoops low at the tiny symbol.
I trace the letters on the note before tucking it away for safekeeping. I’ll hang it on my fridge when I get back home.
Grabbing a meatball sub and a glass of wine, I relax in the plush chair that faces the ice.
The Stars enter the rink, and Grant comes out of the tunnel last. When his skates hit the ice, he scans the crowd.
He lifts his hand in a wave when he spots me, and I wave back.
Even from here I can see the smile he’s wearing, and happiness barrels into me.
It’s pure, unadulterated bliss. It’s all-encompassing, something I haven’t felt in…fuck. I’m not sure ever.
Not like this.
Not because of another person who knows me as deeply as he does.
The puck drops, and the game starts. I focus on the sport I love, not the man I can feel staring at me from the bench.
When the lines switch and Grant enters the game, I scoot forward in my chair. I can’t take my eyes off of him, tracking his every move and impressed by how much energy he has.
Every possession, every face-off, every second he’s out there, he’s doing something that will help his team. Rebounding, passing, skating backward to protect Sullivan in the goal. He covers two hundred feet in the blink of an eye, and my cheeks hurt from how hard I’m grinning.
In the third period, he takes a shot that barely misses the net. The puck ricochets off the post and flies toward the corner along the boards.
One of his teammates—Hayes, it looks like—scoops up the rebound and passes it back to Grant, but it’s deflected by the opposing team who takes off toward Sullivan. They move down the ice. The winger kicks the puck back to his defenseman to line up for a shot, but Grant is there.
He dives between the net and the opponent’s stick, sacrificing himself.
As he does, the puck hits him right at the base of his neck, in the spot unprotected by his helmet and pads.
Grant drops to the ice immediately, sprawled out on his stomach and sliding over the face-off circle where he stays unmoving.
The play stops, and when it does, chaos ensues.
Ethan throws off his gloves and takes a swing at the player who made the pass that hit Grant.
The redhead’s fists fly. He punches anywhere he can reach, but Grant is still down.
Lexi rushes onto the ice and I stand on instinct, fumbling with my phone so I can watch the replay and find out exactly what happened.
I slow the video down and pause it at the moment of impact.
I watch it again, finding that Grant was struck in the back of the neck, right near the top of his spine.
It was an accident, a player in the wrong place at the wrong time, but a hush falls over the hometown crowd as they wait for their player to get up.
“Shit,” I whisper.
The spot where Grant got hit is one of the most vulnerable spots of an athlete’s body. Spine injuries are serious, and from the way Lexi motions to the training staff standing in the tunnel, I know they’re getting a spinal board so they can attempt to keep him as stationary as possible.
The fighting has died down. Both teams watch Grant, and when he gets loaded onto the board, he lifts his arm and wiggles his fingers. A sob escapes me, relief swift and sharp as he curls his hand into a fist then releases it.
A few minutes later, the game resumes, but my heart isn’t in it anymore. I can’t stop thinking about Grant and how seriously he might be injured, and I leave the arena with the vase of flowers and the note he wrote me while desperately worrying about the man I adore most in the world.