Book One: BlockedBrit The first question Brit always got when people found out she played ice hockey was “Do you have all of your teeth?” The second was “Do you, you know, look at the guys in the locker room?” The first she could deal with easily—flash a smile of her full set of chompers, no gaps in sight. The second was more problematic. Especially since it was typically accompanied by a smug smile or a coy wink. Of course she looked. Everybody looked once. Everyone snuck a glance, made a judgment that was quickly filed away and shoved deep down into the recesses of their mind. And she meant way down. Because, dammit, she was there to play hockey, not assess her teammates’ six packs. If she wanted to get her man candy fix, she could just go on social media. There were shirtless guys for days filling her feed. But that wasn’t the answer the media wanted. Who cared about locker room dynamics? Who gave a damn whether or not she, as a typical heterosexual woman, found her fellow players attractive? Yet for some inane reason, it did matter to people. Brit wasn’t stupid. The press wanted a story. A scandal. They were desperate for her to fall for one of her teammates—or better yet the captain from their rival team—and have an affair that was worthy of a romantic comedy. She’d just gotten very good at keeping her love life—as nonexistent as it was—to herself, gotten very good at not reacting in any perceptible way to the insinuations. So when the reporter asked her the same set of questions for the thousandth time in her twenty-six years, she grinned—showing off those teeth—and commented with a sweetly innocent “Could’ve sworn you were going to ask me about the coed showers.” She waited for the room-at-large to laugh then said, “Next question, please.” *** This was it, the call up of her life. And Brit was sitting in the parking lot of the arena, unable to force her fingers off the steering wheel. “Get it together,” she muttered. “Or you will suck on the ice.” Harsh, probably. But the truth. Still, the words were enough. Enough to get her body in motion, to pop her door, and walk around to the trunk of her ten-year-old Corolla. Her gear was shoved inside the small space like a sausage threatening to burst from its casing. Brit grabbed the strap and hauled out her bag before slinging it across her shoulder. “You know they have guys for that.” The voice made her jump, and her gaze shot up, then up some more until she stared directly into the eyes of the captain of the San Francisco Gold, Stefan Barie. The slight tinge of a Minnesotan accent made her shiver. Uh-oh. And seriously, only a hockey fan would find a Minnesotan accent sexy. He smiled. “It’s the coldest-winter-is-summer-in-San-Francisco thing.” When she frowned, he cocked his head. “The wind chill.” What? “You know? Mark Twain?” Her brows pulled together. “I know who Mark Twain is, and I’m familiar with the quote. Though it’s a common misnomer, and Twain didn’t actually say it. Still, it is windy in the city . . . I just don’t know why you think I’m cold, and it’s not—” She shook herself. What was the point in her rambling? “Never mind.” This was what her mind did. Every single time. It drifted, focused on mundane details she then couldn’t prevent from bursting free. No surprise that once they were free, her conversations were punctuated with awkward pauses. Like the one happening now. Brit sighed. Give her an interview any time. Let her spout off sound bites to the camera and no problem. It was the real life human interactions that were terrible. “No,” Stefan said. “Tell me. What is it?” It was only because he seemed genuinely interested that she answered. “It’s not summer.” “What?” Another sigh. Yep. Way to go, genius. “It’s technically fall. Summer has been over for six-and-a-half days.” There was a moment of quiet, a long, uncomfortable pause during which neither of them spoke. Then surprisingly—shockingly—Stefan laughed. Her heart gave a little squeeze, her brain said, Uh-oh, but then before she could really panic, he spoke, “You’re absolutely right. Now come on.” Snagging her sticks, he nodded toward the arena. “I’ll show you the ropes.”
Oh no, this wouldn’t do.This. Would. Not. Do. Brit stared up at the obviously hastily created sign—black squiggles of Sharpie and crumpled computer paper tended to highlight that fact. This would not do. “Okay then. See you on the ice,” Stefan said, handing over her sticks and walking down the hall. Brit dropped her bag to the black skate mat laid across the concrete floor, pushed open the door, and peered inside the room, just to make sure it wasn’t full of her teammates, that this wasn’t a lame joke for the new girl. It wasn’t. Hot rage slid through her that she tried to swallow. She needed to be on her A-game. Needed to focus. And this wasn’t the players’ fault. Apparently, management had decided to go for this little endeavor on their own. Likely, they were trying to keep things PC in order to avoid a potential lawsuit. But this was Brit’s future. She fumbled for the switch and flipped on the light. Her heart sank further as a wave of disappointment welled up. It was exactly as she’d feared. A single bench. One equipment rack. Yup. Getting dressed by herself was sure going to help her integrate into the team. The locker room was the heart of any hockey team, where joking and ribbing and plenty of cursing took place. It was where she’d always felt most comfortable, and where she’d been able to find at least a few allies. How was she supposed to receive coaching sequestered by herself? Should she just watch the team bond and draw up plays without her? Miss the talk about D-pairs or changes in the system? She wasn’t the first woman to sign a contract with a professional men’s hockey team, but she was damn sure the first to have earned a chance at the backup goaltending spot. Which might someday lead to a starting position. A major step of which was connecting with her teammates. Brit let the door slam closed, shouldered her bag, and walked down the hall. She heard them before she saw them. “Chin up,” she murmured and pushed into the room. It took a few moments for the guys to notice her. Silence fell, stifling, hot, embarrassing. Not that a little embarrassment would stop her. Spotting an empty bench and rack, she walked across the room. Her bag hit the floor with a thud; her sticks clacked together as she set them against the wall. She could have heard a pin drop, could practically smell the smoke coming out of her teammates’ ears. Not about to let them get the drop on her and having been through this more than her fair share of times, Brit knew it was best to get the awkwardness over. She unzipped her bag, hung up her gear, then toed off her shoes and stripped down. All the way down. “Everyone get that good look,” she said into the quiet locker room. Her gaze slid around, meeting each of the guys’ in turn. Some were obviously confused or shocked, a couple were irritated by her or her interruption, and some were typical men—if their eyes glued to her breasts were any indication. Others—like Blane, her teammate now three times over—were familiar with her methods. He didn’t even blink at her nakedness, just kept his eyes on hers and nodded in greeting. “Get it out of your system,” she told the interested ones, “and get over it,” she said to the irritated section. She was here to stay, and if they had a problem . . . well, they could suck it. To the rest, she said, “Now let’s play some fucking hockey.” With that, she snagged her sports bra and underwear and started getting dressed. “Style points, sweet— I mean, Brit.” She grinned up at Blane, who was half-dressed and standing in front of her, and feigned indifference, even though her heart was pumping with jitters. This may not be her first professional hockey rodeo, but it was still the NHL, where the best came to play. No way she wanted to screw that up. “You know how it is,” she told him. Her anxiety eased when he stepped closer and gave her a quick hug. It was nice to have him there, especially since the two of them went way back, having played together in juniors. “Ten points out of ten.” His voice dropped. “You okay?” “Now I’m fine.” She was. And as soon as she got onto the ice, she’d be even better. “Good.” Her lips twitched. “Good for you to catch that sweetheart.” Blane grimaced, tapped his nose. “Hasn’t been the same since the first time I made the mistake of using it.” She’d been young with a chip on her shoulder the size of a redwood. Blane had made the mistake of trying to prove to his friends he could get in her pants. The result had been a broken nose for him and a month-long grounding for her. But they’d gotten that nonsense out of the way, had settled into a warm and easy friendship. “I’d say sorry—” she began. “But I wouldn’t believe you anyway.” He grinned. “Glad you’re here,” he said and crossed back to his spot to finish getting dressed. Brit grabbed her pelvis protector, pulled it on, then snagged the black and gold striped socks that had been in the other dressing room. Just as she was about to slip one over her foot, a soft voice interrupted her. “Well done,” Stefan said. She turned to look at him, not having noticed he was in the stall next to hers, and her heart gave a little tremble. Which she ignored. Obviously. He raised two fingers in silent salute before continuing to get dressed. Slowly, noise filtered back in through the room, lewd jokes punctuated by awkward pauses as the guys glanced toward her for her reaction. “You’ll have to do better than that,” she called after a particularly bad one. “I’ve heard that lame excuse for a joke before.” Stefan snorted, and her eyes flashed to his. Was it pride in his gaze? Annoyance? She couldn’t tell a damned thing. She’d just knelt atop her pads and begun strapping them on when Coach Bernard came in. He hesitated for the briefest moment, as though surprised to see her, then plugged an iPad into a cord in the corner of the room. The image on the tablet’s screen was projected onto the far wall, and he ran through each of the drills in turn. “Move it,” he told them. “Ten minutes.” On the way out, he paused near Brit, glared, then inclined his head to an open door just off the main part of the locker room. “When you’re finished.” She nodded, tied the last couple of straps, and stood. Leaving her chest protector and helmet on the shelf above the bench, she walked to Bernard’s office. Her pulse raced, and her palms were sweaty. His expression had said this chat wouldn’t be concerning her welcome party. The buckles on her leg pads clinked when she hesitated on the threshold. Bernard glanced up from a stack of papers on his desk and waved at her. “Come in.” Brit shuffled her way inside, waited. Bernard studied her, his face completely impassive, and yet there was something under the surface. It wasn’t dislike exactly, but she got the feeling he hadn’t been one hundred percent on board with her being there. Well, tough. She’d prove herself to him as well. Just as soon as she figured out a way to end this god-awful silence. A minute went by. He stared at her as she stood there, half-dressed and awkwardly taciturn. Eventually, she cleared her throat and asked, “You wanted to see me?” “Yes, Brittany—” “Brit,” she interrupted automatically. Bernard didn’t say anything for another long moment, only regarded at her with a raised brow. Her gut went tight as she stared back. Last thing she wanted to do was get on the wrong foot with management and, between her locker room striptease and interrupting the coach, she had the feeling she was off to a very bad start. “Brit,” he finally said, “I think you’re a good player, don’t doubt that. But I’m not sure you being here is the best thing for the Gold.” Ouch. The Gold were the NHL’s newest expansion team, a controversial addition—and an unnecessary one at that, some thought—in the already professionally crowded, but hockey-hungry Bay Area. As with most expansion teams, they weren’t very good, which wasn’t unusual, but the owners were running out of patience, and the team had gotten some bad press last season: carousing, the odd DUI, then a scandal involving one of their top players and a rape allegation. Couple that with losing the majority of games . . . Rumor had it, if the team didn’t improve this season, the owners might sell. “You think I’m a publicity stunt.” A way to clean up the Gold’s image rather than a valuable addition to the team. It wasn’t something she hadn’t already thought of. Bottom line, though, was it didn’t matter what management’s motivations were. This was her chance to play at the highest level possible. To be the first woman to do so. It was a really big deal, no matter the pushback she would have to withstand. God knew, she’d already endured plenty of it from the media, from other players in the league, from her own mother, who worried she might be in over her head. Outwardly, she held onto a shield of confidence, pretended all of the naysayers had no freaking clue. But inside? She did wonder if she was good enough. Only time would tell. Still, Brit knew one thing. And it was a big one. She knew she could deal with pretty much anything if it meant she could play hockey. The sport was in her heart, in every single nerve ending and cell. She never felt more at home than when she was on the ice. “Maybe you’re a publicity stunt. And maybe it’ll work out.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t her future he was so casually dismissing. “But my experience tells me not.” “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.” She didn’t bother trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice. Any bridges she might have worried about conserving had been burned long before she’d even set foot in the locker room. Bernard sighed. “You’re talented. I’ll give you that much. Your glove hand is one of the fastest I’ve ever seen. But you’re shorter than the male goalies and weak on your upper blocker side. That will need improvement if you want a chance at a start.” “Noted,” she said. “I’ll work on it.” And she would. “Good.” A beat of quiet. “See you on the ice.” With a nod, she left the office, knowing that despite Bernard’s lack of confidence in her abilities, he had spoken the truth. She was shorter. Her blocker side—the hand that held her goalie stick and was protected by a large rectangular pad—was her biggest weakness. It wasn’t as if she could grow six inches on the spot, but . . . she could work on her technique, bust her ass, and practice hard. Harder than she ever had before.
A man stood next to Brit’s stall when she came out of Bernard’s office. Mid-fifties with close-cropped white hair, he wore a black tracksuit with the Gold’s logo and skates. A pair of gloves and a stick were propped next to her gear.“Brit,” he said, putting out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Frank, but the boys call me Frankie, so feel free.” Call him Frankie? Words literally would not form on her tongue. Because she already knew who the man was. Had researched each member of the Gold’s coaching staff before she’d signed her contract. But that didn’t stop her from being starstruck. Frank wasn’t just Frankie. He was Franklin Todd, renowned goalie coach and former professional player, and just about as close as she got to a hockey orgasm. Meeting him, talking to him was better than shutting down a cocky forward on a breakaway, better than stacking the pads and stealing an almost-guaranteed goal. He was her idol. Except . . . Her heart sank because he probably felt the same way as Bernard. She was an annoyance, a not-quite-good-enough player. Worse. She was a girl. Well, fuck that. Straightening her shoulders, Brit glanced up and forced herself to witness the derision in Frankie’s eyes firsthand. Except it wasn’t there. She stumbled for a moment before settling on “H-hi, Frankie.” He grinned, grabbed up his stick and gloves. “Hi, yourself. Don’t let Bernard get to you. He’s a hardass to every new player, and he especially doesn’t like rookies.” She shrugged into her chest protector and began securing it in place. It was strange to be considered a rookie at her ripe old age. In hockey, rookies tended to be in their teens, or sometimes their early twenties. Definitely not well on their way to their third decade. But that aside, she decided to ask the bigger question. “Why’d he agree to have me on the team?” If she’d been expecting a platitude about Bernard really liking her on the inside or some crap, she’d have been wrong. “He had no choice.” Okay then. “I wanted you and threatened to walk if management didn’t give you a contract.” Brit was dumbfounded for a long moment before she found her voice. “But . . . why?” She’d had her fair share of supporters through the years, her brother, some coaches and players, a small—very small—segment of fans who knew who she was. But why would someone she’d never met—someone she didn’t know—put his neck out for her? “I saw you in Buffalo.” She frowned, thought back to all the times she’d played in Buffalo. Only one game stood out. And not because they’d dominated. “But we got creamed.” Her team had lost 8-1, and she remembered each of the four goals that she’d let in with crystal-clear accuracy. The two periods she’d played had been some of her worst hockey ever. “I know.” Confused, she just stared at him. “You let in some soft ones.” Was that supposed to make her feel better? “But after you were pulled”—after the coach had taken her out of the game and let the other goalie play—“you stayed on the bench instead of going to the locker room.” Brit remembered sitting there, at first because she hadn’t wanted to make the walk of shame past her teammates, and then in sympathy when the score continued to rise. “Yeah, I did.” Frankie watched her for a long moment, his eyes fixed on hers, as though willing her to understand. She didn’t. Big deal. She sat on the bench. It isn’t like she’d done it for unselfish reasons. Frankie sighed, clapped her on the shoulder, and turned toward the hall that led to the ice. “Five minutes.”
