And just like that, we win the charity game, a.k.a. the Death Match.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan on the walk to the locker room. “That was ridiculous.”
All my teammates appear equally exhausted.
“I thought I was in shape!” Neela squawks. “Like, I’ve been lifting hard in the offseason. My arms feel like jelly.” She lifts them up, then lets them drop down like wet noodles.
Coach strides into the locker room before everyone starts to change.
“That was some damn good hockey,” he tells us, looking around in admiration. Then he rolls his eyes. “Although I’m not sure which part of ‘Save your energy for our season opener’ you didn’t understand,” he finishes, referring to the speech he gave before the game began.
“You know us, we leave nothing out there on the ice,” Whitney chirps.
He sighs. “Someone told you Brad Fairlee was in the stands, I presume?”
“Yup,” she says, and everyone laughs.
Everyone except me. Because my blood has run cold.
Brad Fairlee?
Anxiety tugs at my belly, twisting into a knot. “What happened to Alan Murphy?” I blurt out.
“He’s out,” Adley says. “The higher-ups are saying medical reasons. They’re being hush-hush about it, but I think he might’ve suffered a heart attack or several.”
“Jeez, is he okay?” asks Whitney.
“I believe he’s still in the hospital, but that’s all I know. USA Hockey gave the job to Brad Fairlee, their offensive coordinator. He’s good. Well-deserved promotion.” Adley heads for the door. “All right. Get dressed. I’ll see you on the bus.”
Everyone starts talking amongst themselves again as girls drift toward the showers. My nervous energy only intensifies while I shower the sweat and exhaustion away. I don’t wash my hair, just throw it up in a wet topknot, get dressed, and hurry out of the locker room.
I want to find Brad Fairlee, but I’m not sure what to say to him. We haven’t spoken in a few years. I suppose I could pretend I’m asking about his daughter, Emma, but depending on how much she’s told her dad, he might see through that ruse. Because I don’t give a flying hoot how Emma Fairlee is doing.
Still, I can’t just let the head coach of the national team leave this building without at least trying to gauge where his head is at. I should have heard something by now. That is, I should have heard something if they were considering me for the team. I know one girl from Wisconsin was already asked to train with them, so they must be in the process of finalizing their roster. They have to; all the big games are coming up, like the 4 Nations Cup in November and the USA-Canada Rivalry game in February. And then next February is the biggest game of all. The Olympics.
God. I fucking want this.
I don’t ask for a lot of things. I was never one of those spoiled girls who asked Daddy for ponies and demanded an elaborate Sweet Sixteen party. Granted, Wyatt and I spent our sixteenth birthdays watching our dad win Game Seven of a critical playoff series. His team didn’t win the Cup that year, but it’s still pretty cool to spend your birthday in the owners’ box at TD Garden.
This, though. I want it. Want it so bad I can taste it.
To my surprise, there’s no need to hunt Fairlee down like a bomb-sniffing dog. He calls out my name the moment I enter the lobby.
“Mr. Fairlee, hey,” I call back, trying to tamp down my eagerness. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has,” he agrees. “What is it now? Three years?”
“About that.”
I close the distance between us, my hockey bag slung over my shoulder.
Mr. Fairlee isn’t a tall man, but he’s built like a tank, with a barrel chest and thick neck. He played hockey in his youth, but didn’t find much success in the pros, mostly because of his height. Eventually he went into coaching, where he did find success. A lot more of it now, apparently.
“Congratulations on the win.”
“I wasn’t expecting such a competitive game,” I answer ruefully.
He nods. “Good job on that shootout.”
“Thanks. And I hear congratulations are in order for you too. Coach Adley told us you were named head coach of Team USA.”
Pride fills his eyes. “Yes, thank you. I’m looking forward to heading up the team. Winning some medals.”
“Sounds great…” I pause, hoping he’ll fill that space. Praying he’ll tell me something, anything, any hint about where he’s at in terms of building a team.
But he says nothing.
Awkwardly, I go on. “I mean, I guess it goes without saying, but I would love to be considered for the roster.”
Another nod. “Of course. We’re looking at several players right now. There’s a really dynamic group of college players this year.”
Bullshit.
I swallow the word, trying not to bristle. I am by no means arrogant, but I know every single player in NCAA hockey, including the new crop of freshmen. Some rookies are showing potential, but for the most part there are only a few standout players among all the D1 programs. And I’m definitely in the top ten, if not five.
“Well, that’s good to hear. I don’t know how many college players typically make the roster, but—”
“About thirty, forty percent,” he supplies.
That shuts me up.
Damn. That’s a brutal stat. Considering the size of the roster, if there are only a few open slots, that means he’ll be choosing two, maybe three college players.
“Like I said,” he continues after he notices my expression, “we’re looking at several players, but of course, you’re one of them. Your talent is undeniable, Gigi. Sure, there are minor issues to work on, but that applies to everyone.”
“What issues?” I ask a little too quickly then realize it might sound like I’m offended by the criticism. So I hurry on to add, “I’d love any pointers you might have for me. I always want to improve my game.”
He purses his lips. “It’s the same issue you’ve always had. You’re not effective behind the net.”
This time I do bristle, because he’s acting as if this “issue” is some Achilles’ heel that’s been plaguing me for years, holding me back from having any success. That’s nonsense. Every player has their strengths and weaknesses.
“That’s great feedback, thanks. I’ll talk to Coach Adley about that.” Then, because I know it’ll be conspicuous if I don’t ask about her, I force myself to inquire, “How is Emma doing, by the way? She’s at UCLA, right?”
“She’s doing well. Really thriving on the West Coast. She landed a small role in a pilot.”
“Cool,” I lie.
It bothers me to hear good things are happening for her, and I hate that streak of pettiness. I don’t like thinking of myself as petty.
“I’ll tell her you asked about her.”
Please don’t, I think.
But the slight edge to his voice tells me he wasn’t going to pass my regards along anyway. Yeah…she totally poisoned this well.
“Well, it was good to see you, Gigi. I see someone else I need to speak to.”