Page 27 of Playmaker

How much longer was my love of hockey going to keep me going before I gave up and did something else? Because right now, I wasn’t loving hockey. If I was honest with myself, the only things that were really keeping me going were spite and stubbornness. I couldn’t give up because I couldn’t let mydetractors—least of all my own father—be right. I needed to stay here—visible, playing professional hockey with that C on my chest—because fuck everyone who said I didn’t belong here.

That had carried me through a lot of funks from my youth days all the way up through major juniors, and it was doing a lot of heavy lifting right now. But how long was it going to be enough? How long before it was okay to say I was done fighting and—

My phone screamed to life in my pocket, and I swore loud enough that whoever was next door probably heard me. Again when the iPhone’s screen confirmed what the ringtone had already told me:

Dad.

Ugh. Really? I did not have it in me to deal with him tonight. I just didn’t.

But I also didn’t have it in me to have passive-aggressive voicemails festering on my phone, so… fine.

I put the phone to my ear and rested my free hand over my eyes. “Hi, Dad.”

“Oh good, you’re still awake.”

“It’s only…” What time was it? “It’s not that late.”

“Yes, well,” he said, sounding justslightlypatronizing, “I know what it’s like, playing a game and traveling on the same day.”

I rolled my eyes beneath my hand. “Just part of the sport.”

“Mmhmm. It’s probably not nearly as demanding for you, though, which is why I figured you’d still be up.”

It took all I had not to push out a frustrated breath. I’d walked right into that, hadn’t I? Should’ve seen it coming from a mile away. Sort of like I should’ve known Cady Williams had been trying to draw a penalty from me earlier, and that I shouldn’t have taken her goddamned bait, and—

“Well, I’m up.” I kept my voice as neutral as I could. “How are things?”

“Things are fine.” He sounded dismissive, which meant he hadn’t called to talk about “things.” He didn’t keep me hanging about why hehadcalled, either: “Sabrina, how long are you going to embarrass yourself out there?”

“Embarrass myself?” I dropped my arm to the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “What do you mean? It wasonebad night.” The words,“You had them, too”stuck in my throat.

Dad scoffed. “Any night spent playing in this joke of a league is a bad night.”

I rolled my eyes again, then rubbed them with my thumb and forefinger. “I’m committed for at least two years. So, even if I wanted to quit, which I don’t…”

I didn’t hear what Dad said next. I was vaguely aware of the disapproval and irritation coming down the line, but I was mostly focused on my own words.

“Even if I wanted to quit, which I don’t…”

Ididn’twant to quit.

Did I?

No, I was pretty sure I didn’t. But I couldn’t lie—right now, just the thought of putting on my gear and hitting the ice again made me want to bury my head under the pillows and sleep for a month. I hated myself for the way I’d played today. I hated how I’d felt around my teammates. I hated how one conversation with one teammate—one who’d always thought I was shit on her shoe—had thrown off my concentration, my love of the game, my—

“Sabrina!” my dad snapped. “Are you listening to me?”

I jumped. “Hmm? What?” I paused. “I think my phone cut out for a second. The reception here isn’t that great.”

He laughed haughtily. “That league is putting you girls up inluxuryhotels, aren’t they?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. This was the same hotel the men’s league used, but I wasn’t in the mood to argue with him about that. Or about anything, but whatever. “What were you saying before my phone went wonky?”

Dad gave an impatient huff. “There are a million other things you could be doing with your time and your family’s good name. Why don’t you start an organization like your sister-in-law? She’s doing a ton of good things for people.”

I literally bit my tongue. He was forever telling me to follow in my sister-in-law’s footsteps, since she—unlike my mother and me—was the epitome of the flawless hockey wife. Imani was the model-perfect face beside my brother, and she ran a non-profit that helped underprivileged children. I adored her, and she did amazing things for a lot of people, but—as Dad was forever reminding me—Iwasn’ther.

“This is what I want to do, Dad,” I said flatly, and my stomach curdled because I didn’t know how honest I was being in that moment. “I want to play hockey, and I’m good at it.”