Ryker

I remember that day with actual fondness. Bill got all red in the face as he ranted at me, and my father just leaned back in his chair at the head of the conference room table and let me take it all on my shoulders. My father never fought my fights once I became an adult and I loved him for it. It meant he respected me.

It didn’t matter that it was wholly unfair to put that loss on Ryker’s shoulders. The fact is, the team—as a whole and with our regular starting goalie, Max Fournier—blew a three-game lead in the playoffs against Atlanta. Ryker came in cold off the bench when Max suffered a season-ending knee injury and was immediately placed in the net to face off against one of the best players in the league for a penalty shot.

And when he missed it, he became the pariah of the Cold Fury team.

At least for a little while.

But right now, it’s kind of hard to be the outcast when you have a .936 save percentage.

Yes, now my boy is back. He’s become a team leader—a man the younger guys look up to. He’s killing it on the ice, and I believe nothing is going to stop him this season. I can see it in his eyes, the tilt of his chin, the set to his shoulders. Ryker Evans, the Brick Fucking Wall, is going to lead this team—my team—straight into the playoffs. He has something to prove and that’s fine by me…whatever motivates him best.

“—which means that the only one who has to prove herself to you is Gray. I’m not even asking you to give her a chance because I know she’d never ask that of you either. I’m just telling you to watch and judge her on her own merits.”

My dad steps away from the podium and gives me a wink. He sweeps a hand out, indicating that I now have the floor. I didn’t have any expectations that I was going to be greeted with open arms. I didn’t expect applause, wolf whistles, or even metaphorical banging of hockey sticks to welcome me. In fact, I got more than I ever anticipated just from that quick nod of approval from Ryker Evans.

That’s fine by me.

Just makes this all the easier for me as I step up to the podium and prepare to cement my place in history.

“I’m not big on inspirational speeches. It’s not my job to motivate you to greatness the way it is for Coach Pretore. My job is to ensure that he has the necessary tools with which to bring home a championship for this organization. I’m not being boastful when I say that we have what it takes right now—sitting here in this room—to win the Cup this year. I say that with confidence because I recruited a good chunk of you men. Not one of you needs to peek under my skirt to know I don’t have a big pair of hairy balls like you. But I’m here to tell you, just because I’m wearing a skirt, do not underestimate me. You do that for me, and I will make you part of a hockey dynasty.”

I hear a snicker from the back of the room and I see Claude Amedee has his face down trying to hide his grin. Clearly, what I said was made into a whispered joke among a few of the players, because the guys sitting around him all are trying to look innocent with fake smiles plastered on their faces. I don’t even pay it any mind. That was something I prepared for.

“We have three home games this week so I’m going to be scheduling meetings with each of you individually. The purpose is twofold. First, I want you each to have an opportunity to sit down with me and tell me your concerns. No holds barred, total honesty, no repercussions. Second, we’re going to go over goals, and by that, I’m going to tell you what each of you needs to do to maintain your position on this team. I abhor tardiness, so don’t be late.”

More snickers from the back of the room as I turn from the podium and I’m greeted by my father’s warm eyes. I know it’s killing him not to throw a glare at the offenders, but he’d never disrespect me that way. He knows that I have to handle myself with them and earn the respect.

All of my degrees, IQ points, and Olympic medals don’t mean shit to these guys. They will want to see results and I intend to give them just that.

Chapter 3

Ryker

It’s impossible to get comfortable on this couch. Whoever designed the executive office suite seemed to forget that big, burly dudes play on the team, as evidenced by the low-slung, European-style couch done in dark gray that’s as hard as a rock and practically pushes my knees to my chin.

I flip idly through last week’s Sports Elite, reading with some interest the predictions on the college football National Championship game. Even though they’re underdogs, my money is on the Buckeyes. I’d also bet my entire paycheck that next week Gray Brannon’s face will be on the front cover. I can see the headlines now.

CAN A WOMAN RUN A HOCKEY TEAM?

It’s all anyone is talking about on every major sports outlet, and, frankly, I’m fucking sick of it. There seems to be a general consensus that she’s going to fail merely because she sits down to piss. That seems to be the attitude of the players too. I’ve heard more than one guy come out of his meeting with Gray Brannon grumbling about her ideals and methods. Over the last two days as they’ve all met with her one by one, I try to press them on specifics, yet not one of them can give me a concrete complaint. Again, most are just focused on the fact that Gray is a woman.

Claude Amedee actually was bitching about her in the weight room yesterday. When I asked him exactly what his problem was with her, he said—I kid you not—“I read an article that said she never wants to get married and have children. I mean…how is that even natural?”

I felt like I’d fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole and emerged just shy of the eighteenth century. But I didn’t get into it with him. I don’t get into it with any of them. They’re entitled to their opinions, as am I. As long as we all keep our eye on the prize.