Page 18 of Playmaker

Fortunately, the Bearcats’ PR department didn’t give me any grief for it.

“No one would bat an eye if someone from the men’s league said the same damn thing.” Marci, our PR director, rolled her eyes. “The minute our players are anything other than cheerfuland ladylike, they lose their minds. Like, have they never met hockey players?”

I laughed, relieved that she got it. “Right? I’m, uh…” I cleared my throat. “Sorry for the extra headache, though.”

Marci waved her hand. “Trust me—this is nothing. And I mean, aside from the people who have to give you crap, I think most people probably watched that interview and thought the same thing I did—you’re an athlete who’s busted your ass, and you’re over people trying to give that credit to someone else.”

I let my shoulders sag a little, and I exhaled. “God, I hope you’re right. There’s just always so much…” I shook my head.

“Oh, I know. But put it in perspective. Any time the League announces an exhibition game in a city that might be getting an expansion team, there are dozens—hell,hundreds—of comments from people about how stupid it is. Women’s hockey is too slow. Nobody cares about women’s sports. All the comparisons about how their bottom-tier beer league team could easily beat them.” She made another dismissive gesture. “You get the idea. Read all that shit, and it’s really demoralizing, you know? Sounds like nobody wants us. But then game day comes, and the stands are packed.”

“Huh. I hadn’t thought about that, but you’re right.”

Marci smiled. “Trust me. You’re just hearing a lot of noise from trolls and from journalists who are desperate to be relevant. Meanwhile…” She picked up her tablet and thumbed to a spreadsheet, then showed it to me. “McAvoy jerseys are flying off the rack so fast, the team store can’t keep them in stock. And I don’t mean the Doran McAvoy jerseys.”

“The Doran—” I craned my neck at the tablet. “We’re selling mydad’sjersey?”

She rolled her eyes. “Someone in marketing thought it would be a good idea.”

“Of course they did,” I muttered.

“But I don’t think they’re going to keep stocking them.” Marci pointed to a line on the spreadsheet. “Only four have sold. Meanwhile,yoursare backordered in all but two sizes.”

I peered at the screen, and sure enough, all but one child size and one adult size were backordered, and the two sizes still in stock had fewer than ten available. Dad’s jersey, on the other hand, still had ample inventory in every size.

I laughed quietly as I handed back the tablet. “Don’t tell my dad.”

“Oh, no one is going to say a word.” She tucked the tablet under her arm. “But I’ll be very surprised if we’re still carrying Doran McAvoy jerseys come Christmas.”

It was probably petty as hell to be this satisfied about that.

Oh well. Apparently I was that petty.

“All right, ladies.” Coach Reilly scanned the room, locking eyes with each of us in turn. “This is an historic evening for Pittsburgh and for women’s hockey. We’ve got a packed house. This is a sports town, and they’re turning out in droves for us just like they have for the men’s football, baseball, and hockey teams.” She smiled broadly. “So let’s give them the level of hockey they came to see.”

Everyone in the room cheered, all of us exchanging fist bumps on the bench.

Of course, Lila’s gaze snagged on me for a second, and her expression instantly soured.

So did my mood.

I broke eye contact, but not before letting her see me roll my eyes and laugh. Then I bumped shoulders with Val, wholaughed, and we carried on with putting on our gear and getting psyched for the game.

Yeah, I see you, I hoped Lila heard.And you arenotgetting under my skin.

Moments later, we were heading out onto the ice for warmups.

A lot of people had told me before I came here that Pittsburgh loved sports. As Coach Reilly had said, this was a sports town, through and through, just like Seattle.

As we hit the ice, the fans did not disappoint. People were still coming in, but there was a dense crowd along the glass all the way around our end of the arena. People held up signs, banged on the glass, waved, cheered—I could play hockey until I was ninety and this would never get old. Especially the part where there were dozens and dozens of little girls smiling so big their faces must’ve hurt.

One redhead who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight held up a sign with Anya’s number and the words,I’M A GOALIE TOO!

Beside her, a Black girl of about ten watched us in awe as she gripped a sign reading,I’M GOING TO BE A BEARCAT SOMEDAY!

I tossed pucks over the glass to both of them, loving the way their eyes lit up. They dropped their signs and clutched the pucks, turning around and waving them at their parents as if they couldn’t believe it.

I tapped my stick against the glass, gave them each a fist bump, and continued my warmup routine.

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