“I can’t talk about Neil!” I squeak. “I can’t lie to a room full of people about our relationship.”
“Don’t lie,” Bess says. “Yes, you two eloped. Yes, you met right here in this very building. Yes, he’s hotter than a Texas day in July. See how easy this is? And if we give this information at the press conference, we’re controlling the narrative.”
I let out a groan. “You are using my personal life to sell more tickets.”
“No, we’re not,” Bess argues. “We didn’t ask you to marry Neil. And we didn’t alert the media. But they are here anyway, and they are hungry. So you’d better feed them some badass hockey. Because that is our job.”
I hate it when other people are right. “Fine,” I clip. “I will win this game and then I will be sunshiny and make sure everyone loves women’s hockey.”
“Atta girl,” Georgia says. “It’s a bit of a pony show,” Georgia says. “But it’s your pony show.”
I take a deep breath and remind myself that my sham marriage is something I’ve agreed to. I’m going to stay with Neil and save up some money so I can scrape off my awful family and live in a nicer apartment.
Meanwhile, I have a game to win. “If I score a goal, I can talk about that instead of my screwed-up personal life, right?”
“Works for me,” my coach says. “Better get changed, then.”
I realize the meeting is over, so I make a break for the door.
I’m stretching my hamstrings on the bench in front of my stall when the dressing room door bangs open, and Samantha comes through. “Omigod, that crowd is amazing!” she gushes.
“Isn’t it?” Fiona agrees, tying her skates with quick fingers. “We were born to play in front of that crowd. This is everything.”
I grit my teeth and drop into a forward fold, limbering up my back and checking the double knots on my skates at the same time. “We played in front of a crowd at the All-Stars game,” I point out to my captain.
“Sure,” Fiona agrees. “Where—as you pointed out—the men probably got up to take a piss during the women’s events.”
I had said that. Sue me.
“Charli, let’s go,” Fiona says, standing up. “It’s time for warmups. You’ll see that crowd, and you’ll realize this is a good thing.”
“I’m still stretching,” I grumble.
“You nervous?” Scarlet asks, clipping her goalie mask into place.
“No,” I say quickly. “Just trying to take it all in.”
After a few more stretches, Coach tells us that it really is time to go. I head for the door and push it open, my teammates on my heels.
On the other side of the door, I’m greeted by a rubber-coated ramp and a few rubber-coated stairs leading down to the rink. The Bombshells’ suite of locker rooms is the nicest in the league. But it’s bizarrely on the second floor, so we have to descend carefully.
Eighteen months ago, the Bombshells’ dressing rooms were built on top of the men’s facilities. As usual, women’s hockey was literally an afterthought. Even now, we play on the Bruisers’ ice when they’re done with it at the end of the day.
Nobody wants to hear me say these things aloud, though. We’re supposed to be filled with gratitude at the opportunity to be professional athletes.
And mostly I am. I know Rebecca started a women’s hockey franchise that is almost guaranteed to lose money for several years—and maybe indefinitely. I know I’m one of the fortunate twenty-three women who gets paid (a paltry sum) to play here.
It’s just that everything in my life works like this. I grew up sleeping on relatives’ sofas and was grateful they didn’t turn me over to the state. I went to a fancy private high school where I was snubbed by the other girls, but I was very grateful to get a top education for free, so long as I kept helping them win hockey games. Ditto college.
I’ve been an afterthought my whole life. Just once I’d like to be somebody’s first choice.
I reach the bottom of the stairs, and the ice door is closed. But hell—I can already hear the crowd through the door. They are loud.
Okay. Well. That is pretty wild. I open the door just a crack so I can peek through. And the view causes my breath to stutter in my chest. It’s a sea of lavender out there. The Bombshells’ fan shop must be picked clean. The crowd is packed with women and also little girls. So many little girls. Some of them are holding lavender pompoms.
“Isn’t it wild?” Sylvie says from behind me. “Bess said they did a rush order of merch. It was printed in the Bronx this morning. Hundreds of sweatshirts and jerseys.”
“Jesus.” Even the topmost row is full.
“Listen up, chickies!” Coach Sasha says. “I’ve got their game roster, and Reba Hastings isn’t on it.”
I let out a whoop. “That is good news.” She’s Albany’s dangerous sniper, so this game just got easier.
“Thought you’d enjoy that,” my coach says. “I wonder if she’s injured.”
“Don’t tell me,” I grumble. “I’d rather not know.” It’s not like I sit around praying for other women’s misfortunes, but I’m pretty happy not to be blocking Hastings tonight.
Coach looks at her watch. Then she steps past me and opens the door. “All right. Let’s have a big night.”
A tone sounds, signaling the start of warmups. Fiona is the first to step out on the ice.
The crowd roars. It’s deafening.
“It’s a big night here in Brooklyn!” the announcer says in a cheery voice. “Packed house for the Bombshells. Warmups last fifteen minutes. Then we’ll have the national anthem sung by Grammy-award winner Delilah Spark…”
Christ. Georgia and the management team pulled out all the stops tonight. I guess the future of women’s hockey in Brooklyn will depend on how the game is received by our five thousand new fans.
Cool, cool.
When it’s my turn to step onto the rink, I push off and keep my head down. I lengthen my stride to activate my muscles.
The crowd roars, and a ripple of something like excitement rolls through me. I guess I’m not immune.
I take a nice, easy lap and try to tune it out. If I let this bullshit change my game, I’m sunk. When I skate past the penalty box, I see a familiar face out of the corner of my eye.
Neil’s sitting beside a bunch of his buddies. They’re all decked out in… are those Bombshells jerseys? And every guy is holding a shiny, printed sign. Let’s go Bombshells, and Brooklyn Hockey Strong.
Good lord. The production values are pretty high around here tonight.
I skate a little faster. Don’t screw this up, Higgins, I coach myself. Head in the game. Fiona sends me a pass. I easily flick the puck toward the net, and the crowd roars.
Well, that’s trippy. What are they going to do if I score an actual goal? Set off fireworks?
Warmups end way too quickly. As I make my way back to the bench, I notice that some of the fans are holding signs, too. One woman’s says: Go Bombshells! (And BTW, does Neil Drake have a brother?)
“Are you shitting me?” I growl. “Are the fans here for us or for Neil?”