Page 3 of Cross Check
NOVEMBER, SEVEN SEASONS AGO
If there was an award given to the woman with the most patience, it would be mine for the taking.
No competition, no questions asked. I’d be walking away from this disaster of a dinner with a shiny trophy, the engraving at the base reading I survived the worst date of all time.
It wouldn’t be enough compensation for the damages I’ve accrued tonight.
“So.” The man sitting across the table looks me up and down. He chews his bite of spaghetti with his mouth open, and I try not to gag. “What did you say you did for work?”
“I’m in charge of a group of individuals.” I smooth my hands over my jeans. My tolerance for small talk is dwindling by the second. “I’m third in command, and I make sure they’re performing up to their potential.”
“That’s vague. What kind of money do you make?”
Ignoring the incredibly forward question would be reasonable, but giving in will make a better story for my friends. I decide to flash him a smile I wish were full of daggers.
“Decent enough. Six figures.”
“Huh.” His attention moves to the TV hanging near the bar at the Italian restaurant where he insisted on meeting me. Best marinara in the city, he boasted, and it’s comical how wrong he is. Heartburn inducing is more like it. “God. I hate hockey. I used to be a fan, but the league has gotten soft over the years.”
Contain the eye twitch, Amelia.
“How so?” I ask.
“Hiring women as coaches and general managers? The whole pride tape thing? I want to watch sports, not have political shit thrown in my face, you know?”
“No.” I bat my eyelashes like I’m intrigued by his misogynistic opinion. “Tell me more.”
“It’s a men’s league. Always has been.”
“Except for Manon Rhéaume, the goaltender who played for the Lightning in two preseason games.”
“Yeah, and look how long she lasted.” Douchebag Extraordinaire snorts. I’m contemplating whether a butter knife is sharp enough to slice a man’s throat. It has to do some damage, right? “The women coming into the league aren’t more qualified than the men. It’s a check in the box. A quota the teams are trying to fill to look inclusive. Play the sport, and shut up about the rest.”
“Interesting.” I gesture to the television where Los Angeles has a one-goal lead over New York. “NHL teams with women in executive roles produce a better record than the ones with men in governor positions.”
“Probably nepotism. Handed down from someone who did the job better than them, and they are riding the coattails of success.” His attention moves back to me. “You care a lot about this shit.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty passionate about not being a sexist pig.” I reach into my purse and search for some cash. After dropping three twenties on the table, I push back in my chair, standing. “If you’ll excuse me, I need the restroom. I’m ill, and I won’t be returning. Have a good night.”
I dodge a waitress and make my way to the bathroom. When I’m safely inside, I slip into a stall. I lock the door behind me and start a timer.
Five minutes.
I’ll stay in here for five minutes before I head back into the restaurant, find a spot at the bar, and ask for a slice of key lime pie to go. I was eyeing it when we were ordering, and I deserve a treat after suffering through whatever the hell that was.
Admittedly, I don’t date much. It always comes with questions and opinions after the men I meet learn I’m an assistant coach for the Denver Goldminers. Being the first female coach in the NHL comes with perks, absolutely. Seeing girls wear my jersey, being told I’m changing the league, and speaking on panels that promote diversity across professional sports are rewards I dreamed about when I first picked up a stick.
But there are challenges too. I get asked for tickets or lineup advice so a guy can cash out on his parlay. There are jokes about how many of the players I’ve slept with—zero, a vow I took when I signed my first contract—or how many of them want to sleep with me—zero again, I hope, given I’m the one torturing them with never-ending drills.
When I’m lucky enough to find a man who doesn’t care about sports or hockey and is unbothered by a career that takes me across the country for a week at a time and out of the house for nine months of the year, there’s always a conversation about success. About power, and how they don’t like that I seem to have a lot of it.
I learned a long time ago not to dull my accomplishments for anyone, and that includes mediocre men who think they’re worthy of a second of my time.
My timer goes off and I smile, exiting the stall. I wash my hands and head back to the restaurant, glad to find the man of the hour has left. All the seats at the bar are taken, so I turn for the hostess stand to place my dessert order.
As I pass the graveyard of another deeply disappointing social interaction, a hand on my arm stops me. A warm touch, long fingers. A jolt pulses through me when I glance at the man occupying the table behind mine.
His dark brown hair is messy and wavy, and his brown eyes are bright. There’s a youthfulness to his face, a smile I haven’t seen since I passed my mid-twenties and stopped giving a shit what people thought about me.
