AMELIA
EIGHTY-SEVEN
Lainey
Checking in on you, sweetie. Did you eat breakfast?
Me
I had soup for dinner last night. Haven’t managed to keep anything down this morning.
Sienna
Maybe try some oatmeal? Or something easy on your stomach like rice?
Me
Maybe.
Lainey
I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Amelia. I wish we were there to help.
Me
It’s my own doing. I knew this was a possibility when I first got involved with Grant.
I just hate that it’s playing out on such a public stage. I can’t focus on the gold medal game later today because I’m wondering if the people I pass are whispering about me being a slut.
Sienna
You’re not a slut.
Me
That’s not what the media thinks.
Sienna
Fuck the media. Uninstall your apps. Put your attention on the moment you’re in. You can figure everything else out later.
Lainey
And remember we love you. We’re here to support you however we can.
Me
Thank you. That means the world to me.
“You look like shit.” Emmy hands me a cup of coffee and closes the door to my tiny office in the locker room.
“Caffeine was the best I could do. I thought bringing a handle of vodka into the arena before the big game might be frowned upon, but you’re the coach. Say the word, and I’ll make it happen.”
“Thank you. Coffee is fine.” I give her a weak smile and lift the cup in her direction. “I feel like shit too, so I’m glad that’s consistent across the board.”
“I know it’s been a hard week. Has Darcy called you?”
“About ten times. We have a meeting scheduled the day after I get back from Italy.” I rub the heel of my palm against my eye.
I’ve had a permanent headache the last seven days, and I don’t know if it’s from crying myself to sleep or the lack of food and water.
“I wish she would get my punishment out of the way so I don’t have to stew in anticipation over what’s going to happen to me. ”
“She’s progressive. Maybe she’ll be lenient with a punishment.”
“Until investors and minority owners breathe down her neck and demand she fires me. Darcy will do what she has to do to keep her job safe and the money rolling in, and I won’t fault her for it.
” I sigh and sip the caffeine. It’s too bitter, and I set the cup down.
“Sports are a business, and having a coach who sleeps with players isn’t a good look for an organization that’s trying to cement themselves as a powerhouse in the NHL.
Even if she does go easy on me, the league is going to have some sort of punishment too. ”
“It’s such bullshit.” Emmy sighs. “How many of those investors have slept with their secretaries? Or been arrested for fraud? Why are you the one being singled out?” Her eyes meet mine. “How are you holding up?”
It feels like someone’s taken a shovel to my chest, dug out my heart, and thrown it in a blender.
I hurt in ways I didn’t know I could hurt, both emotionally and physically.
I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Every time I close my eyes, I see Grant.
I hear the plea in his voice when I told him I needed space.
I feel his hands on me, trying to reassure me that he’ll figure everything out. That he’ll make it all go away.
The worst fucking part is that being with him would cure all the pain.
A hug from him would help me sleep. A smile from him would make me want to eat again.
But I can’t be near him.
Distance is what’s best to keep my mind focused on the job in front of me.
Distance is what protects my reputation.
After tonight’s game, I need to seriously reflect on what my future looks like. Does it include Grant? Does it include taking some time away from the sport I love? Is love worth the punishment coming my way?
They are questions I’ve avoided asking myself, but I’m out of time now. The second I’m back in Baltimore, my whole life might change. I need to be ready for it.
“Not well,” I admit. “I knew it would be bad if anyone found out about us, but I didn’t know it would be this bad. I’m expecting to be suspended. I wouldn’t be shocked if I was fired. Everything I’ve worked so hard for is likely to be taken away from me.”
“I talked to some of the guys in Baltimore. The locker room is in agreement, and we all have your back,” she tells me, but it does little to soothe the ache I’m carrying.
“We don’t care what personal relationships you have.
Your job is to coach us, and you do it better than anyone else.
We’re prepared to stand up for you if the punishment is excessive and unfair. ”
“If only the league didn’t care about personal relationships.” I rub my jaw. “Unfortunately for me, they don’t.”
“Have you talked to Grant?” she asks.
“No. I said it would be best if we stayed apart until we got home. He’s giving me that space, and I’ve avoided all the places where I might run into him.” I pause. “Have you… you’ve seen him, right?”
There’s no doubt in my mind that she has, but I’m afraid to hear her answer.
“Yeah. I got dinner with him, Mav, and Hudson last night.” Emmy pauses. “He doesn’t look good, Amelia. He’s going through hell too.”
I’m a terrible person for being glad he’s also miserable. At least we’re both suffering.
“I hope I’m not too much of a distraction for him. I don’t want the men to lose because his mind is somewhere else.” I swallow. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
“You could never be a distraction. An inspiration and an icon? Absolutely. The women are playing the gold medal game tonight in your honor,” she says, and her voice dips to soft and reverent.
“It’s our thank you for the things you’re doing for those of us who love this sport.
For lifting up your peers and being the first, but not the last. We’re going to make it happen because you paved the way. ”
“Thank you for being a friend during this really shitty time,” I croak. “For being an athlete I admire and respect. For being kind. I really appreciate you, Emmy.”
“You’ll get through this. And when you do, you’ll have a gold medal to your name.” Emmy stands and fixes the sleeve of her jersey. “See you out there, Coach.”
“Stop being scared to take the shot,” I say to the women on the bench during a timeout. “I like the passes we’re initiating, but I want to see more aggression at the crease. Someone needs to be the leader if we want to close out this game.”
It’s the third period, and we have a one-goal lead on Canada.
We knew this matchup would be a barn burner going in, and the energy from both teams has been palpable from the start.
With a packed arena and decades of rivalry between the two squads, you can’t blink without being afraid you’re going to miss something important.
The second the puck dropped, the outside noise in my life quieted.
I sunk into the sport that I love, and coaching this immensely talented group of women has been a relief.
With my whiteboard in hand, I feel like myself.
I’m not someone who tarnished their reputation.
I’m not someone who did anything wrong. I’m not whatever other horrible things that have been tossed my way in the aftermath of those photos being published.
They can try to tear me down all they want, but I’m not going without a fight.
I’m Amelia Green. I’m in my element, and I’m a goddamn badass.
“Berkshire,” I call out, and Alice looks at me while she finishes a sip of her sports drink. “I want you, Hartwell, and Gander to go to a low-to-high rotating triangle. It’ll stretch Canada’s defense, and we’ll see if we can wear them down to create a shooting lane.”
“Sounds good.” She finishes her sports drink and fixes her cage. “Who do you want in the slot?”
“Make Hartwell the puck carrier to start. You take the slot, and shift Gander over to the corner.”
“Got it.” With a look of determination, she glances at the ice, running the play in her head.
I pace behind the bench while the timeout wraps up and don’t let my mind wander from anything other than the game happening in front of me.
I haven’t let myself consider if Grant is in the stands tonight, but I saw glimpses of the rest of the men’s team up on the premium level. I have to assume he’s here too, and it makes my heart ricochet against my ribs.
I don’t linger on what he might be wearing or who he’s sitting with. Does he miss me like I miss him? Does he hate me for walking away from that bathroom?
Because I hate myself for leaving him. For leaving us.
The referee blows their whistle, and I’m pulled back to the here and now. My mask is in place, and our first line takes the ice again. They huddle up and exchange a few quick words, and it’s been special to see the bond they’ve formed in only a few weeks together.
Men’s hockey has camaraderie too, but often times you’re balancing competing egos and the guy with the bigger paycheck wanting to be the one to take the shot that wins the game.
These women have a kinship I haven’t found in the NHL yet, a sisterhood of sharing the responsibility and taking the blame when things don’t go right.
I’d like to coach in the PWHL one day. This time in Italy has confirmed that for me, and I take a deep breath as time resumes.
Canada wins the face-off—they’ve been aggressive from the jump all night—and immediately move for Parker Harrington in goal.
She’s spent years in the AHL, but her performance in the Olympic games has me sure a PWHL or NHL contract will be in front of her soon.
She’s only given up three goals the entire tournament for the U.S.
, and she’s been instrumental in our success.
Canada’s shot comes up short, and Emmy gets the rebound.
A silent conversation passes between her, Berkshire, and Gander, and the three settle into the triangle we talked about.
Canada tries to read the play, but their defender goes left instead of right when Berkshire dishes the puck back to Emmy after a pass.
It happens in slow motion; Emmy’s lifted chin and her stick pulling back. The way she assesses the ice and sees the open path. She keeps her eyes straight ahead, locked on her target, and goes for a slap shot that hits the top bar of the goal before sneaking into the net.
It’s the best bar down goal I’ve ever seen, the ping of the puck against the metal loud enough to hear from our bench.
Emmy lets out a roar and lifts her leg, skating on one blade while the women on the ice celebrate her.
The U.S. fans jump to their feet in the stands.
I know Maverick is up there somewhere, holding their daughter who just witnessed her mom make history.
Canada doesn’t let us celebrate for too long, going on an immediate tear to the opposite end after another face-off win.
Harrington is ready, her blocker out so she can catch the puck before our opponents are able to score.
We keep control the next six minutes with another goal that flushes out any hope Canada might have, and when the buzzer sounds, all the women tumble onto the ice.
Helmets and sticks and gloves go flying, and I’m wrapped in a hug by one of my assistant coaches.
“Holy shit!” someone screams, and I’m pulled toward the group of players.
Someone else hugs me, and a dozen people shake my hand. I can’t stop smiling, and my eyes well with tears. It’s the first time I’ve ever cried on the ice, but it seems like as good a moment as any.
An Olympic gold medal hockey team.
That little girl who signed up for her first hockey camp all those years ago wouldn’t believe it.
It feels better than winning the Stanley Cup in a way I can’t explain.
There’s more magnitude behind it, and maybe it’s because there are reporters asking me questions in a dozen different languages.
Maybe it’s because someone from the Olympic committee arranges us in a line after we shake Canada’s hands.
Maybe it’s because the players get a medal put around their neck, and the crowd cheers louder and louder for each woman.
It might be because I don’t have anyone to celebrate this with.
I have to keep my smile in place, clapping and refusing to look up to the stands to see if I can find the one person I wish was by my side.
I don’t want to know if he’s looking at me.
I don’t want to know if he’s telling the person next to him how proud he is.
I don’t want to know if he’s jumping up and down and saying, see that one in the blazer? That’s my girl right there.
After the ceremony ends and everyone files off the ice with their new hardware, I’m left alone. The ache in my chest is back, and it turns out gold medals can’t heal everything.