Page 3 of Playmaker

“It’s not wasting your time or your money,” I said coldly. “And it’smyreputation at play here, not yours.”

Dad tsked. “You have no reputation without mine.”

Anger surged in my chest, but I kept it down where it belonged. The last thing I needed was him telling me I was too emotional, which was exactly what he would do the second I let the cracks show.

Keeping my tone even—something I’d perfected over a lifetime of going toe-to-toe with him—I said, “Your reputation didn’t score those goals or—”

“Neither did you,” he snapped.

I had to fight hard not to grind my teeth or lash out at him. Dadhatedthe way I played. He’d been the leading goal scorer in the men’s league for multiple seasons. I racked up points that kept me well within the upper ranks of my own leagues—whether the pro one I was in now or major juniors before—but I had far more assists than goals. Always had. Yes, I absolutely could and did score, but I’d been a playmaker since my youth days. I was the one who’d fight through the other skaters, get the puck into the offensive zone, win the board battles, and send itto the person who was in a better position to shoot, whether she was at the blue line or on the edge of the crease. I was faster than most of my teammates, more agile in maneuvering around and between opposing players, and I used that speed and agility to get the puck where we needed it before letting a sniper finish the job.

My dad was convinced that I was just compensating for being a weak shot. My coaches, teammates, and fans knew better—that I absolutely could make the shots when I needed to, and they didn’t give a damn either way when my playmaking ultimately resulted in goals. I didn’t care who got the puck in the net and who got the A as long as it meant a point for the team, and even my dad couldn’t deny that my assists were frequently the reason my teams won by multiple goals.

But he didn’t like my style of play, and he didn’t like women’s hockey being a thing in the first place, so what was the point in arguing?

“It doesn’t matter how good a female hockey player is,”he’d told me once when I’d been begging to sign up for youth hockey. “There’s nothing more useless than being good at something worthless.”

Thank God my mother had secretly signed me up, and since Dad had still been an active player back then, he’d been gone too much to notice.

Here in the bedroom of the rental house I was moving out of, I steeled myself and, once again, kept my voice mellow and even. “No one’s asking you to come to the games. But I’m doing this, and the contract is signed.” I shook my head. “So there’s nothing to argue about.”

His lips pulled tight as he crossed his arms and glared down at me. “Hockey is amen’ssport, Sabrina. This women’s nonsense will never be taken seriously, and neither will the girls who play it.”

I gritted my teeth. And people wondered why our mom had left him. “The League has twenty-four teams now and plays for sellout crowds.”

Dad huffed with annoyance and rolled his eyes. “Sellout crowds of little girls and people who want to gawk at women who think their sports matter.”

It was all I could do not to let a sly smile come to life. “The ticket sellers don’t care who’s buying the tickets and filling the seats.”

“They should,” he muttered.

Yeah, yeah. I’d heard it before. As far as he was concerned, ten little girls in a crowd were worth less than one adult man, and if men and boys weren’t going to games, then no one who mattered was. Sometimes I wondered if he was one of those nameless, faceless assholes who littered the comments on articles or posts about women’s hockey, announcing that “no one cares about women’s sports” and “beer leagues are better than this bullshit.” I didn’t read the comments anymore, though, so I wouldn’t be able to comb them for turns of phrase that would give him away.

Right now, I just wished he wouldgoaway.

I pushed my shoulders back and turned to my sister, who looked like she wanted to crawl into a hole instead of stand here listening to us argue. “We should load up the cars while we still have daylight.”

That brought her to life. She perked up and quickly said, “Good idea. I’ll pull mine up behind yours.”

Then she hurried past me and down the hall, probably relieved to be escaping from the never-ending headbutting between Dad and me.

As coolly as I could, I faced my father. “The contracts are signed. The movers are here.” I shrugged. “There’s no point in arguing over any of this.”

“There is, though.” He tightened his arms across his chest. “There’s the matter of my name on your jersey.”

That fury again tried to surge to the surface, but once again, I tamped it down. “It’s my name, too.”

His laugh was full of derision. “And you were certainly quick to change it back when it came time for you to start this”—he made air quotes—“‘professional hockey’ nonsense. Weren’t you?”

I very nearly lost control of my temper. Even two years later, that wound was still far too raw, and I was pretty sure he knew it. Some aggravation slipped into my voice as I said, “I didn’t change back to my maiden name so I could play hockey. I changed it back tomyname because I didn’t wanthisanymore.”

He laughed again, sounding more patronizing than before. “Of course, it was just convenient that you left him and took back my name right when the girls’ league took an interest in you.”

Before I could respond, he brushed past me and strode out of the room.

I stood there for a moment, eyes closed as I took in a few slow, deep breaths. The press had floated that same theory about why I’d reclaimed the McAvoy name shortly before signing my PTO with Seattle. So many people were convinced my name took me farther than my talent or hockey IQ, and yeah, changing it back right before I came out of retirement did raise some eyebrows. I just had to wonder if, much like I suspected he was a misogynistic internet troll, Dad was the reason that particular theory had gotten so damn much mileage.

I rolled my stiff shoulders and looked around my mostly empty bedroom. I knew the truth. I knew that I hadn’t cared about reclaiming my name nearly as much as I had about shedding my ex-husband’s. Getting this far away from him had been well worth it, even if it had given my dad and the media rumor fodder.

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