Her Slap Shot (In Her League #1)

Chapter 1

Finley

“You know, watching you out there during practice, it was like you were just another coach,” Patrick remarks, surprise lacing his tone. Like, somehow the fact I’m a woman would change my ability to be the head coach for a professional men’s hockey team.

Fortunately, Paddy here is not the first man to make a statement like that while somehow thinking it’s a compliment. Though I do wonder for the third time in as many minutes how this is the man they picked to interview me for a sixty-minute segment on the leading sports network.

Instead of making a smart-ass remark before systematically walking him through exactly why it’s comments like his that make women in sports feel singled out, I do what Sabrina, the head of the Denver Yeti’s PR department, has drilled me to do for the last nine months since I became the first female head coach in professional hockey history: I fucking smile.

And I swear I see Sabrina relax from the corner of my eye. It makes me want to stick my tongue out at her, but I manage to keep it together. See? I’m super damn professional.

I continue, answering Patrick’s statement as if it were a question, “The mechanics of hockey are the same no matter what level you’re playing at, or if you’re coaching a men’s or women’s league.

Sure, there are a few differences, but that’s true as you move from high school to college to the farm league to the pros, too.

As far as experience goes, I am just another coach out there. ”

Patrick nods. “And the men all seem to respect you.”

Truly, where did they find this guy?

“I’ve found respect is earned, and when you’re working with professional athletes, you earn their respect by making them better.

I’ve been with most of these guys for two to three years now.

We worked together during my time as an assistant coach, and we saw success at the end of last season when I was interim head coach.

These men have been working with coaches for years, and when you’re able to help them get just a little bit better—to increase their speed or their stats by a percent or more—well, they don’t care if you’re a man or a woman. ”

The truth is, the team has been great. From the summer interns to the owner, the Denver Yeti have been nothing but professionals.

There were a couple of comments from guys on the team when I first joined as an assistant coach a few years back, but every coach learns to expect that.

Whether you’re a man or a woman, the players test you to make sure you’re worth their time.

Fortunately, I’m damn good at my job, and the players recognize that.

When Burt, the previous head coach, had a heart attack on the bench last season, I stepped into the interim head coach position, and there was no pushback, no testing. The players were nothing but supportive. But I’d already proven my worth.

Though I’m enough of a realist to know that respect based on performance is conditional. One mistake, and it can all crumble. Which is why I don’t plan on making any mistakes.

“And is that a lesson you learned from your father, Hall of Fame coach Hal Blake?” Patrick asks, his face alighting like a little boy on Christmas morning—the same face almost any hockey fan gets when talking about my dad.

“It is,” I reply. “My dad is known for his ability to make players better, and I was fortunate enough to be the one person in his life he got to coach from the time they were in diapers.”

Patrick laughs. “I’m sure it’s helpful having your dad’s support and experience to call on whenever you need it.”

Ah, so now we’re going with the nepotism angle. Love it, Paddy. Love it.

Probably not the place to mention that my dad actually called up the Yeti’s GM, Greg White, to suggest I wasn’t ready for the head coach position when the interim job unexpectedly opened up.

Hell, he all but said it again today during our weekly call.

But I’ve proven to him that I’m worth his support before, and I’ll prove it this season, too. Turns out, I enjoy proving men wrong.

“I’m fortunate to have worked with a number of excellent coaches throughout my career, including my dad, as well as other men’s and women’s coaches at various levels.

No one makes it to this stage without a roster of mentors they’ve learned from.

” Another planned answer delivered with the winning smile Sabrina loves so much.

I should win some sort of award for the performance I’m putting on right now.

The interview with Patrick continues, the focus moving from the fact I’m a woman with a famous coach for a father to the current challenges with the Denver Yeti roster. My answers are clean, precise, and fully Team Yeti.

Patrick turns to face me fully, his smile suggesting he’s about to spring a hard question on me. “So, let’s talk about the defense. A lot of analysts have been surprised by how many points the Yeti have let the other teams score this season.”

“Our defense isn’t performing as well as we’d like,” I tell the truth, even though Sabrina would argue it’d be a better move to try to spin it.

But building a culture of accountability has been my push since I took over as head coach.

And I think it’s working. The players joke about it sometimes, but I truly believe in doing what you say you’ll do and owning it when you don’t.

Despite our defensive struggles, we don’t have any internal drama.

The players know what is expected of them, and we own our outcomes, naming mistakes, addressing them quickly, and learning from them to move forward.

And I can’t preach accountability if I’m not willing to live it myself, even when it makes me look less than ideal. Like now.

“Our defense is young,” I continue. “This is a building year for us, and you’re seeing some of that right now.

But I have full confidence that we’re going to be where we need to be to make it deep into the playoffs this year.

Pike has really started to come into his own, and with his leadership, the team is going to rally. ”

The unspoken truth is Pike has to come into his own.

We’re three months into the season, and if he doesn’t, I’m not sure the team will get where they need to be by April.

We spent our entire coaches’ meeting this morning discussing this very thing.

Then my defensive coach, Rob McCall, and I had a long conversation with Pike about how we expect him to be more vocal on and off the ice.

Another fifteen minutes pass by before Patrick finally states, “One final question, Finley.”

As much as it crushes my soul, I reply, “Of course,” rather than asking him if he calls all coaches by their first names or if it’s just the ones with vaginas. I love watching men squirm when I use the V word.

“Where do you see the Yeti at the end of this season?” he asks.

I smile, a real one this time, and I don’t miss the way it makes Patrick shrink back just slightly.

“Holding the Cup above our heads, of course.”

There is no other option.

I shake his hand, thanking him for his time, before making my way over to Sabrina. “What’s next?”

“They want footage of you with the coaching staff. You with a clipboard, watching film, in a meeting room,” she reads from the tablet in her hand.

“Real or staged?” I ask, imagining the cameras zooming in on my video coach, Dr. Sutton Pearce, as she navigates through her ridiculously named computer files. “Defenderella” was the one she opened this morning before dropping a truth bomb on Rob and me about the state of our defense.

“Staged, Finley, always staged. We can’t have the general public calling you the ‘Ice Queen’ like the guys do.”

“I am the queen of this ice, Sabrina.” I honestly love the nickname, not that I would ever let the players know. Who wouldn’t want to be given a royal title that screams badass?

She sighs. “You know that managing your image is a key portion of my role, right? As the head coach, you’re the face of the team.”

I wink at her. “Then you’re welcome for giving you such great material to work with.”

Sabrina looks slightly shocked, and I realize she rarely sees the sass I keep so carefully hidden. “You know, the fact that you look like you could be a model does not, in fact, help us. It’s hard to make hockey fans take you seriously when you’re on repeat in their spank bank.”

I shake my head. “I played on the boys’ hockey team for four years in high school.

I may have had my own changing space, but that certainly didn’t stop me from hearing exactly what they thought.

Boys are gross, and that rarely changes as they age.

I learned quickly that results are the only way to earn their respect.

So the men of Colorado can jerk off all they want to an image of me lifting the Cup, but I’ll still be the best damn coach in the league. ”

“You should’ve said that during your interview!” Charlotte Langford’s voice echoes from behind us as we walk down the long hallway that leads to the coaches’ offices. “And, turns out, I should’ve been more prepared to change out the interviewer.”

I pause to let her catch up with us, blinking at her bright outfit.

The hot-pink blazer she has on matches her heels perfectly, and the bright blue shirt and matching pants underneath should look ridiculous, but somehow, she pulls it off.

The only reason I manage to match is because, besides my black power suits for game day, I spend one hundred percent of my time in team-issued sweatsuits.

“How did we get lucky enough to have Patrick?” I ask.

Charlotte laughs, picking up on the sarcasm in my tone when most people wouldn’t.

She lived in the apartment across the hall from me for a little over a month a year ago, and due solely to her outgoing personality, we became friends.

Despite our work schedules dominating the majority of our spare time, she’s still the one person I can fully be myself with.

“God, he was the worst, wasn’t he?” Charlotte asks. “I swear, we did our due diligence. You’ve seen him. He did that interview with that one quarterback who finally decided to retire. You know, what’s-his-face? Tim?”

I shake my head at her, hiding my amusement behind a face of ice. “Your dad is the owner of the Colorado Stallions, Charlotte. How can you possibly not know the name of arguably the most famous quarterback of all time?”

She circles her pointer finger in front of my face, her hot-pink nails flashing.

“Don’t give me that look. You know I’ve never cared about the football side of Dad’s business.

Why would I want to watch a bunch of grown men running around, throwing balls at each other, when I could be helping build a global entertainment business?

I, personally, booked Jaxon Steele for five nights at the stadium.

Singing like that while running across a stage? Now that’s impressive.”

“He sure is pretty,” Sabrina agrees.

Um, hell yes, he is. Unfortunately, that buzzing on my wrist informs me I have yet another coaches’ meeting before the game tonight. “Well, I’ve got to get to my meeting so I can have a fake one before my real one. Is there anything else you need from me, Charlotte?”

“Besides your forgiveness for somehow being associated with a company that hired Patrick?” Her smile says she knows I’ll forgive her. “No. Just please don’t let it ruin our friendship. I like Taco Tuesday, even if you’re gone like every Tuesday.”

“I have—”

“To work,” she cuts me off. “I know. And travel all the time. And your games start so late. Luckily for you, my schedule is equally as crazy, so I don’t judge you for it.

But you’d better plan on being my plus-one to the Jaxon Steele concert.

Don’t forget I saw you dancing with a hairbrush to ‘If You Love a Girl.’”

“No way,” a deep voice chirps. “Ice Queen does not sing into a hairbrush.” Lefevre slings an arm around Charlotte’s thin shoulders.

I blink at him. Twice. One of the best parts of being known as Ice Queen is I can make these huge-ass men do almost anything just by glaring at them. It’s a real power trip.

“I mean.” He coughs, his boyish face dropping. “That is clearly untrue. Coach Blake would never engage in such ridiculous, fun behavior.”

I shake my head. Twenty-five-year-olds are so easily manipulated. “Precisely, Lefevre. Now, don’t you have some cardio to do?”

“Nah, I finished—I mean,” he says, backing away when he realizes it wasn’t a question but a command. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

And just as quickly as he came, he’s gone again.

My watch vibrates again, notifying me that I’m truly about to be late.

“I’ve got to go,” I announce. “Can you have your assistant work with Paige to figure out which day will work for me to join you at the concert?” I ask Charlotte.

She shakes her hips. “I knew it. You’re secretly a Steelie.”

I wink. “It’s not a secret. I’m basically his number one fan. Ask my hairbrush.”