72. Amelia
SEVENTY-TWO
AMELIA
The best kept secret in the NHL is that the coaches have strong personal opinions about most of the players in the league.
We differ on ranking the best athlete at each position and who we’d pick to win the Hart Memorial Trophy, but there’s one thing we’re all in agreement on: Brady Williams is the most hated player by a landslide.
The anonymous player poll last season told us his teammates hate him too, and I need to know what he said to make Grant snap. It’s been two hours since all the games ended, and I’ve spent that time pacing around my hotel room.
Grant was allowed to play in the last game, and his team won the cash prize.
Despite the victories, I’m sure there will be repercussions when the regular season resumes later next week.
The league thinks fighting is fun and games until a player is defenseless on the ice, and with no helmet and Grant on top of him, Williams was pretty fucking defenseless.
Not that anyone is sad about his injuries.
Two knocks on my hotel door make me jump, and I glance through the peephole. Grant is standing in the hallway, his hands in his pockets and his chin tucked to his chest. I fumble with the deadbolt, throwing the door open and letting Grant step inside.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks at me. “Can I talk to you?”
“What’s going on?” I walk to the couch and sit, putting a pillow in my lap. I’m fidgety and on edge, afraid of what he’s going to say. “Are you okay?”
“Physically? Yeah. My head is throbbing, but I took some Tylenol that will hopefully knock me out in the next hour.” Grant sits on the couch too, keeping his distance. “I had a conversation with the commissioner, which was scary as hell. He’s more terrifying than Coach.”
“Are you suspended?”
“One game. Thought it would be more, to be honest.” He shrugs. “Kind of disappointed it wasn’t, but he told me I’m a good player who has demonstrated exemplary behavior throughout my career. Apparently I don’t deserved to be punished worse than that.”
“How did you end up punching Williams position in the first place?” I ask. “I can count on one hand the number of fights you’ve participated in, and they’ve all been because you were protecting your teammates. This was unprovoked.”
“I wouldn’t call it unprovoked. Williams was goading me. I shouldn’t have taken the bait, but I did. Someone had to.” Grant reaches across the cushions and holds my hand. “I want to tell you what he said that made me react that way, but I have to warn you that it’s about you.”
“W-what?” I sit up. I wet my lips, a lump building in my throat. “How bad is it?”
I’m no stranger to the internet trolls who think they know how to do my job better than me. You learn to tune out the negativity at some point, but disgust swirls in my stomach when I realize a player is guilty of the same behavior.
Does Brady know about us? Is he going to dangle our relationship over our heads so he can get what he wants in this league?
“Bad.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
He takes a deep breath, eyes downcast as he opens his mouth again.
“He said you’re working in the league because you want attention.
Because you’re…” Grant trails off, his free hand folding into a tight fist. “A whore,” he murmurs, and I rear back.
“He implied that you’ve been… intimate with players in the league, but I cut him off before he said anything else. ”
Bile creeps up from my stomach. I let go of his hand and stand. I walk to the window, my palms on the glass as I look at the street below. As I try to rationalize what Grant just told me, but the words are hard to process. They prick like needles, and I force out a long exhale.
I’m hurt.
Fucking crushed, but I’m also angry.
Angry that after years of putting in the work, people still doubt me.
Angry that a man thinks he knows the reason why women make the choices they do.
Angry that for as far along as we are in welcoming women into male-dominated spaces, we’re not even fucking close to getting it right.
I’m even angrier that Grant was the one who got to rough up Brady Williams while I didn’t get a shot at him.
“It’s not true.” The words tumble out, justification on the tip of my tongue. “I haven’t… you’re the only one I’ve ever—”
“Hey.” He crosses the room and stops behind me.
He places a gentle hand on my waist, squeezing once.
“I know it’s not true. That’s also not something I’d ever think.
Almost none of the players in the league have the backward mentality Williams does, and the ones that do are avoided like the plague. ”
“I’m so exhausted.” I turn to face him. “So fucking exhausted of having this same conversation again and again. Why is no one questioning the men who coach in the PWHL and WNBA? Why does no one seem to mind men existing in women’s spaces, but the second the roles are reversed, suddenly it turns into a problem because we allegedly want to sleep with everyone?
The man who leads a women’s college basketball team to its most NCAA championships is a hero, but the woman who leads a men’s team to the NBA finals is a whore. It’s bullshit.”
“It is bullshit,” Grant agrees. “And I don’t know the way to fix it besides calling it out when I see it and letting people know that shit isn’t going to fly around me—around a lot of us.
Jaxson Delaney told me his buddy plays for the Sea Crabs and talks about how good you are at your job,” he says.
“I can’t start a revolution on my own, but I’m going to try my fucking hardest to make a change. ”
I stare at him—at the dried blood on his nose, at his wrinkled shirt, damp hair, and the determination etched on his face—and it hits me.
I’ve carried the burden of protecting my name and my reputation for years. In every conference room, in every meeting, in every interview with someone who doesn’t understand why I’m here, I’ve stood up for myself.
Now I have someone who can share the load of the weight I carry. Who can tap in when I can’t do it anymore, and of course it’s the same man who has been by my side all these years. Sturdy, steady. Unwavering loyalty that isn’t an act.
My heart constricts in my chest. The air leaves my lungs, and it feels like I’m taking my first breath—my first real breath—in almost a decade.
I’m going to fall in love with this man, and it’s going to be the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
“I don’t like violence.” I turn my cheek so I can kiss the center of his palm. “But knowing you put that man in his place for me?” I shake my head. “I’m so appreciative.”
“I don’t like violence either. My punches could use a lot of work.
I’m probably going to turn into a meme because of how poorly I was swinging.
” Grant smiles, and it’s my favorite thing.
“But you’re the most important person in my life, Lia.
I’m not going to let your name get dragged through the mud when I’m around.
If that means decking someone in the face, so be it. ”
“Men have opinions about me, and I wish they knew the truth. All I want to do is watch hockey. I want to lay the foundation for the next generation of players. I want to win games, and I don’t need a name attached to those accolades.
” A soft laugh slips out. “It’s not about attention; it’s about the sport I love. ”
“Come here.” He wraps me in his embrace and runs his palms down my back.
I rest my cheek on his shoulder, sighing at the press of his fingers along my spine.
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Lia, but for as long as you’re in the league, you’re going to have to fight off those accusations.
It doesn’t help that the two of us have a personal relationship, and if you want to walk away from what we have, I’ll understand.
There are thousands of guys who could take my spot on the roster, but there’s only one Coach Green.
I’m a number. You’re irreplaceable, baby. ”
He’s right.
It doesn’t matter how many Stanley Cups I might win with a team. There will always be people cheering for my downfall, and it’s a hard pill to swallow.
The easy thing—the smart thing—would be to recognize this is the pivotal moment in our relationship before things get too deep.
It’s an opportunity for a clean break, and if this were a year ago, I’d take him up on the out he’s offering me.
I’d cut my losses, wish him well, and settle back into my life of solitude.
But I don’t want solitude.
I want unpredictable and scary and reckless and thrilling, and I want it with him.
“No,” I whisper. “I want to stay right here and tackle these issues with you by my side. You give me hope, Grant. And hope is the best thing I could ever have.”
“Fuck,” he mumbles into my hair. “We’ll fight together. When we’re behind closed doors, I’ll help patch you up from whatever shit the losers of the league want to toss your way. And we’ll keep making it work.”
“Thank you for telling me what he said and not holding it in to protect my feelings. I need to know what I’m up against, and I’m going to keep fighting like hell to pave the way for all the women who come after me.”
“Always, baby. And I’m going to tell the NHLPA what Williams said, just so they can have it on their radar. I bet this is a pattern for him, and documenting it will give us the most chance of there being punishment for his dumbass actions.”
We order room service and talk about the rest of the season while we eat our sandwiches and french fries. When it’s time for Grant to leave, he kisses my forehead and promises he’ll try to catch me before I head to the airport tomorrow. Alone in my room, I fall asleep optimistic.
I can’t change the sport by myself, but with him by my side, we stand a damn good chance at making a difference.