One corner of his mouth quirks up. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I slide my gloves off. “Says who?”
“Says the NCAA rules regarding offseason practices.”
I grin. “Regarding official practices led by the coaching staff. This is just me free skating on my own time.”
“You know you don’t have to push yourself this hard, G.”
“Wow,” I tease. “Are you saying you want me to perform to less than my abilities?”
“No, I want you to keep some gas in the tank for—” He stops, chuckling. “You know what? Nothing. I keep forgetting I’m talking to a Graham. You’re your father’s daughter.”
My spark of pride is dampened slightly by a teeny sting of resentment. When you have a famous parent, you tend to spend a lot of your time in their shadow.
I knew when I started playing, I would be forever compared to my father. Dad is a living legend, no other way around it. He holds so many records, it’s impossible to keep track of them anymore. Dude played in the pros until he was forty years old. And even at forty, he kicked ass that last season. He could’ve kept playing another year or two easy, but Dad’s smart. He retired on top. Just like Gretzky, who he’s constantly being likened to.
That little aggrieved pang is one I need to rein in. I know that. If there’s anyone you want to be compared to, it’s one of the greatest athletes of all time. I think maybe I’m just scarred from the misogynistic caveats that come with all the compliments I’ve received over the years.
She played really well…for a girl.
Her stat lines are impressive…for a woman.
Nobody tells a male hockey player that he played amazingly well for a man.
The truth of the matter is, men and women’s hockey are two vastly different beasts. Women have fewer opportunities to keep playing after college, the professional league has fewer viewers, drastically lower salaries. I get it—one NHL game probably draws a gazillion more viewers than all women’s hockey games combined. The men deserve every dime they are paid and every opportunity given to them.
It just means I need to capitalize on every opportunity granted to me as a female player.
And that means?
The Olympics, baby.
Making Team USA and winning Olympic gold has been my goal since I was six years old. And I’ve been working toward it ever since.
Coach opens the bench door for me. “Is your dad still coming this year to pimp out his camp?”
“Yeah, sometime this week. He needs some recovery time first. We just got back from our annual Tahoe trip last week.”
Every year my family spends the month of August in Lake Tahoe, where we’re joined by close friends and family. It’s a revolving door of visitors all summer.
“This year some of Dad’s former Boston teammates made an appearance, and let’s just say there were a lot of hungover men passed out on our dock every morning,” I add with a grin.
“God help that lake.” Adley is fully aware of the trouble Dad and his teammates are capable of. He used to be an assistant coach for the Bruins when Dad played for them. In fact, Dad is the one who poached Tom Adley to head up the women’s program at Briar.
Even if I wanted to escape my father’s shadow, it’s his name outside on the building. The Graham Center. Thanks to his donation, the girls’ program received a complete revamp about ten years ago. New facilities, new coaching staff, new recruiters to find the best talent out of high school. For years the program had been a pale comparison of the men’s, until Dad injected new life into it. He said he wanted me to have a solid program to land in if I decided to attend Briar when I got older.
If.
Ha.
Like I was going anywhere else.
“What are you doing here today anyway?” I ask Coach on our way down the tunnel.
“Jensen asked me to help out with his training camp.”
“Oh shit, that starts today?”
“Yes, and do me a favor and tell the girls to keep it down. This is a closed practice. If Jensen sees any of you, I’m pleading ignorance.”
“What do you mean, the girls—”
But Coach is already disappearing around the corner toward the coaching offices.
I get my answer when I enter the locker room to find a couple of my teammates congregated there.
“Hey G, you sticking around to watch the shit show?” Our team captain, Whitney Cormac, grins at me from her perch on the bench.
“Hell yes. I wouldn’t miss it. But Adley says we need to remain inconspicuous, otherwise Jensen will freak.”
Camila Martinez, a fellow junior, snorts loudly. “I think Jensen’ll be too busy trying to wrangle those frothing pit bulls to notice a few of us lurking in the stands.”
I take my toiletries out of my locker. “Let me grab a quick shower, and I’ll see you guys out there.”
I leave the girls in the change area and duck into the showers. As I dunk my head under the warm spray, I wonder how on earth the men’s team is going to survive the Briar/Eastwood merger. This is such a huge seismic shift in the program, and it happened so fast that a lot of the players were caught unprepared.
Eastwood College was our rival for decades. Last month, they went under. As in, the whole university shut down. Turns out, enrollment was down to the dregs, and basically the only thing keeping the school afloat was a few of its athletic programs, particularly men’s hockey. It was a sure thing Eastwood would close its doors, and all those athletes would be shit out of luck. And then Briar U came in clutch, swooping in to save the day and bailing them out like a boss. Which means Eastwood is now part of Briar, a development that brings more than a few changes.
Their campus in Eastwood, New Hampshire, an hour’s drive north of Boston, has officially been dubbed Briar’s Eastwood Campus. Full-time classes are still offered up there, but to streamline things, all the athletic facilities were shut down, those buildings scheduled to be repurposed.
And, of course, most importantly: Eastwood men’s hockey has been absorbed into Briar men’s hockey.
Coach Chad Jensen now has the very unenviable task of taking two huge rosters and condensing them into one. A lot of the guys who were starters at both schools are going to lose their slots.
Not to mention they all hate one another’s guts.
I’m not missing this for the world.
I finish my shower and then change into faded jeans and a tank top. I brush my wet hair into a ponytail and slather some moisturizer on my face because the air in the arena always dries out my skin.
My teammates wait for me in the stands. They wisely chose to avoid the benches, instead sitting to the left of the penalty boxes and several rows up. Close enough that we’ll be able to overhear any smack talk, but discreet enough that we can hopefully avoid Coach Jensen’s notice.
Whitney scoots over so I can sit beside her.
The muffled sounds of overgrown man-children in the tunnel trigger my excitement.
In front of me, Camila rubs her hands together and glances over with pure glee. “Here we go.”
They emerge in clumps of twos and threes. A couple sophomores here, a few seniors there. They’re wearing either black or gray practice jerseys. I notice some guys tugging on their sleeves uneasily, grimacing, as if it makes them physically ill to wear Briar’s colors.