Page 8 of Cross Check

“You’re confusing.” Amelia grabs a stick that was left behind, adding it to the pile she’s holding. “You’re nicer than I thought you’d be.”

“We really kicked your asses out there tonight. Your Stanley Cup reign won’t last more than a season.” It’s hard to fight off a smile. “Was that mean enough for you?”

“Better.” Her wrinkled nose and the twist of her lips tell me she’s trying not to smile too. She slips out of the gate and steps on the ice. “This isn’t an act, is it?”

“What? Being a decent human? No. I mean, some things really piss me off and I’ll turn into an asshole if the situation calls for it. Like when I see someone leave their shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot at the grocery store. I said something to a polo-wearing douchebag the other day when he just left the cart there. He flipped me off.” I laugh. “But generally? Yeah. I’m an okay guy.”

“Agreed on the cart thing.” Amelia hums and starts for the locker room. She waves to the Zamboni driver and I skate beside her, wondering if I should offer to carry something. “I’m still not following you back on social media.”

“I respect that decision. I’d never want to make you uncomfortable, and if you want me to stop following you, I will. I understand the need for boundaries.”

“You can keep following me. I like the idea of you watching my team’s success this season.” Her smirk is lethal. I swear it’s a shot straight to my heart. “We’ll see how you all fare when we play in February.”

“That’s three months away. Basically tomorrow.” The public address announcer reminds everyone to drive home safe, and I shrug. “Can’t wait until we meet again, Amelia.”

“Coach Green,” she says, and, yeah. I’m not too proud to admit my entire body flushes hot at the shift in her tone. “When we’re on the ice, it’s Coach Green.”

“Guess I’ll save Amelia for the next Italian restaurant I find you in,” I toss back, and I want to pump my fist when she almost trips. Point, me. “See you soon, Coach.”

She opens her mouth, but I don’t give her a chance to say anything else. I take off for the tunnel and whistle my way to the locker room.

Three months.

Six days.

Seventeen hours.

I’m counting down the seconds until our next meeting.

Amelia Green is under my skin now, and I’m in no hurry for her to leave.

FOUR

AMELIA

FEBRUARY, SEVEN SEASONS AGO

“Sorry I’m late.” I slide into the booth across from my best friends and shrug off my coat. “My meeting ran long.”

“Don’t apologize.” Sienna Washburn pushes a glass of wine my way. “Let me guess? It was a discussion about Women’s History Month. March creeps up, and suddenly everyone is a feminist.”

“Like clockwork, right?” I laugh. “I’m here now. Catch me up. What’s new?” I ask her and Lainey Bodewell, the redhead sitting next to me.

I linked up with Sienna, the VP of premium client services with a Super-Bowl bound football team who made headlines for being the first Black woman to hold one of the highest positions in an NFL organization, and Lainey, the VP of player development for Denver’s NBA team, at a networking event a couple of years back.

Friendships, particularly those with women, have always been hard for me, and it’s not for lack of effort. I’ve tried getting to know the barista at my favorite coffee shop and the Pilates instructor at my gym, but I’m so busy, all of the time. The hockey season takes up most of the year. That includes nights, weekends, holidays, and finding people with similar schedules is nearly impossible.

Except for these two. They’re my sunshine on cloudy days. The people I can share my deepest secrets and greatest fears with, and they’ll always be my top priority.

“We were talking about the Super Bowl,” Lainey says. “It’s unfair the NFL only plays one game a week while you and I have thousands of airline miles because we fly coast-to-coast three times in a week.”

“So true,” I agree. “But I like having a full plate. It makes me feel like I have a purpose.”

“You do have a purpose,” Sienna adds. “You’re our trailblazer.”

“Come on. That word is far too important to use when you’re talking about me.”

“There are internet fan groups dedicated to you,” Lainey deadpans. “And not only weird, sexual ones that talk about what your socks might smell like.”