AMELIA
SEVENTY-SIX
MAY, ONE SEASON AGO
I close my coaching notebook and stand. I grab my green blazer off the back of the chair and slide it up my arms, stopping to fix my high ponytail. A month and a half of into the postseason, and the movements still don’t feel normal.
None of my life feels normal. It’s a surreal dream I’m living every day I wake up, and I hope that never changes.
The Sea Crabs have charged through the playoffs as the underdogs no one thought would survive the first round. Victory after victory have led us to the precipice of the biggest matchup of my career, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
We’ve made it to game seven of the Eastern Conference finals.
The last stop before having a shot at playing for the Cup, and I’m more nervous now than I ever was as an athlete.
It’s knowing I can only draw up the plays, not help execute them on the ice that has me anxious, and I twist the bracelet clasped around my wrist until it’s straight.
“Coach.” A soft knock on the open door drags my eyes away from my jewelry and to Daniel Belmont, my associate coach. “You’re up.”
“Thanks, Daniel.” I smile and adjust my collar, striding to the visitors’ locker room where twenty hockey players sit. “Evening. How are we feeling?”
“Prepared.” Thorne’s gaze locks on mine. “We’re ready.”
“Good. We’ve had a hell of a season, haven’t we?
” I ask, and they all nod in agreement. “We went from the bottom of the league to a playoff team. We’ve held our own against an experienced and hungry DC team, and you should be proud of how you’ve performed.
Every analyst picked us to lose this series in four games, but we’re still out here fighting.
And we’re going to keep fighting until the buzzer tonight.
No matter what happens, I want you all to know I’m proud of you.
” I take a second to gather myself and make eye contact with each player in the room.
“We’re walking out of here as winners, and that’s what is most important. ”
With a final look around the room, I step into the tunnel to give the players a minute alone. It also gives me a chance to stop my hands from shaking. The confidence I’m doing my best to project as the team’s fearless leader wavers, and I run through my mantras.
Confidence in, doubt out.
I can do hard things.
Matching up against DC—and Grant—over the last two weeks has been both thrilling and nerve-racking.
It’s been a test for us, and we were in agreement that the series was the priority, not our personal relationship.
We’ve slept at our own apartments. We’ve kept our texting to a minimum, and we’ve barely acknowledged each other when we’ve crossed paths in person.
It’s better this way.
It lets me keep the different parts of my life separate, but I’m excited to see him at his place tonight.
I hope it’s with a win under my belt.
“How are you feeling, Coach?” Bethany Ambrose, our assistant coach, taps my shoulder. “Excited?”
“And nervous,” I say. “Any last-minute changes I need to know about?”
“Nope. The Stars are sticking with their lineup from game six, and so are we.” At the end of the tunnel, the hometown crowd roars. Goosebumps pop up under my blazer, and I shiver. “That’s our cue.”
I nod and lead the way, with Bethany and Daniel trailing behind.
The players pass us, each knocking their knuckles against ours as they do.
Out in the arena, I survey the stands. The game might be in DC, but plenty of Baltimore fans made the short trip to cheer on the team.
I take my spot behind the bench and grab a small whiteboard to test out the dry-erase marker I like to use.
It’s the exact same routine I’ve done every other game, and we’re too deep in the hunt to change anything now.
Marker ready to go, I tuck it in my pocket. I chance a glance at the opposite end of the ice and find Grant stretching next to Ethan. He laughs, but then he straightens. He looks right back at me, and there’s a gleam in his eye.
He doesn’t say anything or make a move to come this way. He stays perfectly in place except for the hand he puts over his heart. He taps his chest twice then dips his chin, a message of encouragement I know is for me.
Subtle, but profound.
Good luck, it says, and the wind gets knocked out of me.
I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life, and I’m ready to show the world what I can do.
With four minutes left in the game, our teams are tied. The crowd has been on their feet the entire last period, and every missed pass or goal that’s an inch too short elicit groans from both sets of fans.
“Coach,” Emmy calls out from the end of the bench.
“What’s up, Hartwell?”
“I want to be the one to take the shot if I’m open.”
“Tell me more,” I say.
“Saunders is going to assume Thorne will take it,” she starts, gesturing to her captain. “Which he will, except it’ll be a pass, not a shot attempt. I can come in behind the goal off the right post, scoop up the puck, and try to squeak it in under Sullivan’s knee.”
“Hayes will be there waiting for a rebound. Richardson is going to stay at center ice to try for a breakaway.”
“And we won’t let them,” she says. “They’ll think I’m going off the left side, which should leave the right open.”
“Let’s give it a try. Lewis,” I say, and our defender looks up. “Hang back with Richardson. Don’t give them an open path to the crease. If DC gets the rebound, I want us to anticipate that they’ll send it straight down the ice.”
The players huddle up, and I bite back a smile.
Emmy’s call is a good plan and exactly what I would’ve gone with. Thorne’s been the difference maker all night, netting our two goals and almost securing a hat trick. He’s going to have the defensive pressure on him, and drawing the puck away from him is a smart move.
The whistle sounds, and the teams skate to the face-off circle.
My lungs constrict when we win the matchup and Thorne scoops up the puck.
He’s cornered immediately, getting attacked from both sides.
In an act of desperation, he slaps the puck along the boards where Emmy grabs it from the opposite side of the net.
Grant is the one to come at her. He goes for a steal that Emmy uses to her advantage, slapping the puck between his legs and skirting around him until she’s in front of the goal.
With her braid flowing behind her, she rears her stick back and sinks a wrist shot that goes right past Sullivan’s blocker.
The players on the bench jump to their feet and grab each other by the jersey. On the ice, the guys surround Emmy, patting her on her head and knocking their stick against her. She beams, skating our way and accepting a wave of celebratory praise.
“What a shot, Hartwell.” I tug on her sleeve and look her in the eye. “Don’t let them retaliate. I want this moment to be about you, not whatever comeback they’re going to try to piece together.”
There’s still plenty of time on the clock, and I pace behind the bench. My shoulders stay up by my ears when DC tries an offensive surge. I gasp when Maverick lines up for a shot that looks perfect, but ends up wide right.
One minute is all that’s left.
I count each second, the hair on the back of my neck standing up as time dwindles down.
At ten seconds to go, I hold my breath.
At five seconds to go, Bethany lets out a yell.
At one second to go, I shut my eyes, the buzzer ringing in my ears.
We fucking did it.
“Holy shit.” Daniel shakes my shoulder. “Holy shit, Amelia. We did it! We’re playing for the goddamn Cup!”
Everything is a blur after that.
We line up and shake hands with the Stars. Grant squeezes my palm extra tight when I pass him. Brody pulls me into a hug, murmuring get what you fucking deserve under his breath when he lets me go.
Hats and T-shirts are distributed and photos are taken.
The Prince of Wales Trophy is presented to us but we keep our distance, not wanting any curses that might follow us to the next series.
A microphone gets shoved in my face and I talk with ESPN, mentioning the importance of this milestone and what it means for an expansion team to make it as far as we have.
When the noise dies down, I give Emmy a hug.
“Where’s Miller?” I ask, and she points to the Stars’ bench.
Her husband is there, watching her with a look of adoration. He’s in his gear and holding Murphy, bouncing her up and down while tears stain his cheeks.
“I’m so fucking happy,” she says.
“Was it hard for him?” I ask, watching him grab someone’s phone so he can take a photo of Emmy. “To support you while going after his own dreams?”
“No. He always told me I was his dream.” She waves, laughing when he adjusts Murphy’s headphones that keep slipping off her ears.
“I’ve finally learned that boys are the ones who get pissed if their partner has the same level of success as them.
Men? They’re perfectly happy with it. And the really great ones will do everything they can to make sure you have the resources to be even better than them. ”
I give her one more hug and leave her to celebrate with her teammates. I meander through family members and reporters, smiling at the champagne bottle Thorne pops while he skates toward our goalie to celebrate.
Movement in the tunnel makes me pause, and I crane my neck.
Tucked away in the shadows of the bright lights and out of sight is Grant. Keeping his distance, letting me have this moment. He watches with his own tears and a wide smile that almost cracks me in two.
His lips part, and he mouths something that’s hard to make out. It looks like he’s saying I’m so proud of you, and I’m so proud of me too.
“I’m home after being annihilated by the media.” Grant drops his keys in the bowl in his foyer and shuffles down the hall. He unknots his tie, and when he gets to the kitchen where I’m sitting with a slice of pizza, he grins. “Hi, baby.”
“Hi, honey. I’m sorry about the game.”