Page 211 of Cross Check

“Coach Green,” a woman in the back of the room says. “What are your focuses as the team enters this pivotal period before the season starts? The Sea Crabs are the league’s newest addition, but they haven’t been able to produce anything substantial.”

“We’re going to make sure we’ve constructed a team that will allow us to win as many games as possible,” I say. “Our top priority is figuring out our first, second, and third lines, then we’ll fill out the rest of the roster. With a short preseason, we want to make sure we’re implementing our structure early with offensive and defensive systems.”

“Talk to us about Emerson Hartwell,” the man in the front row with glasses says. “She’s been on maternity leave the past fourteen months. Is she ready to work her way into the lineup?”

“More than ready,” I answer, knowing Emmy is stronger now than she was before she got pregnant with Murphy. “She’s extremely valuable to this team and my early pick for the Hart Memorial Trophy.”

“Ms. Green,” a voice calls out, and my stomach twists at the formality. “I’m Simon Buttecker from the⁠—”

“I’d prefer Coach Green when we’re in the press room,” I interrupt. “Mrs. Green is my mother, and I don’t want there to be any confusion about who you’re speaking to.”

I don’t have a clue who this man is, but someone whistles. Another claps. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Darcy wearing a smug smile.

Putting him in his place might have been necessary.

“My apologies, Coach Green,” he says, not sounding sorry. “You have experience, but we have to address the elephant in the room. Ninety-nine percent of your team—and the league—is made up of men. What are you going to do to make sure you’re not a distraction to them? How are you going to regulate your emotions so you don’t interfere with your team’s performance?”

I knew this moment was coming.

The online chatter about being a woman existing in this space is one thing, but hearing it in person is a tougher pill to swallow. Everyone stares at me, and I have a choice.

The easy thing to do would be to ignore the blatant misogyny directed my way. I can brush it off and perpetuate a cycle that will continue for another generation. It’s not my problem. Someone else can fix it.

But then I think about the social media photos I’ve been tagged in over the last three months with girls wearing Sea Crabs shirts and holding up signs that say Welcome to Baltimore, Coach Amelia and the friendship bracelets with my name on them.

I remember the spike in Emmy’s jersey sales and the emails I’ve gotten from young women letting me know I’ve inspired them to take the leap into a coaching role on various teams, from 10U to local high schools.

My platform doesn’t allow me to stay silent anymore, and I’m glad for it.

What good is being a trailblazer if you don’t light a match to the hurdles you had to jump so the road is smoother for those who come after you?

Fuck the patriarchy and anyone who has ever wanted to blame a woman for a problem she didn’t create.

“That’s an interesting question, Steven,” I say.

“It’s Simon,” he says.

“You mention being a distraction, and I’m curious what you mean. Is it my hair? I’m guessing not—Louis Bungalow out in LA has blond hair. Are the suits I wear—the ones that aren’t strictly black or navy blue—a disruption? Can’t be. Phillip Rodrigo in New Jersey rotates through patterned outfits without objection.” I tilt my head, staring at him. “You must think that because I’m a woman, I’m causing a commotion. A valid argument, but last I checked, being on Denver’s coaching staff didn’t impact the Goldminers winning two Stanley Cups. As for regulating my emotions…” I trail off and pull out my phone. “I wonder if you’d ask Mario Towns why he was crying in this photo,” I say, holding up the image of a sobbing man. “And what about this one? Bolden Dempsey looks like he could use a tissue in this picture. Maybe if he had regulated his emotions, they would have only lost the game by two goals, instead of three.”

I click my phone off and shove it to the side. I fold my hands on the table and lean forward so no one can miss what I say next.

“If you’re pissed off that I’m a woman in a coaching position now, I can’t wait to see how angry you’re going to be when we start to win,” I add.

“You manhandled the fuck out of that slimy piece of shit,” Darcy says on our walk to the locker room. “The clip is already making the rounds online. IT told me they’re seeing a spike in traffic to our website, and single game ticket sales are skyrocketing.”

“Years of you need to smile, sweetie got to me, and I let it all out.” I grin and replace my blazer with my team-issued jacket. “I’ll be more professional next time.”

“That dickbag has been causing issues for years. It’s nice to see him put in his place.” She swipes us into the locker room and holds the door open with her high heel. “I won’t hover. Just wanted you to know I’m always going to have your back, Amelia.”

In the locker room, I find the players sitting in front of their stalls in their practice gear. When Thorne Foster, team captain and veteran NHL superstar, spots me, he brightens. He motions for the group to quiet down, and I walk to the front of the room.

“Morning, everyone,” I say.

“Morning, Coach,” they answer, and number forty-six, Jasper Fox, looks my way.

“Is it true you put Simon Buttecker in his place during media availability?” he asks, and when I nod, he lets out a whoop. “Hell yeah. That’s what I’m fucking talking about.”

The rest of the group cheers. Two guys exchange a high five, and I laugh.