Page 233 of Cross Check

Fucking crushed, but I’m also angry.

Angry that after years of putting in the work, people still doubt me.

Angry that a man thinks he knows the reason why women make the choices they do.

Angry that for as far along as we are in welcoming women into male-dominated spaces, we’re not even fucking close to getting it right.

I’m even angrier that Grant was the one who got to rough up Brady Williams while I didn’t get a shot at him.

“It’s not true.” The words tumble out, justification on the tip of my tongue. “I haven’t… you’re the only one I’ve ever⁠—”

“Hey.” He crosses the room and stops behind me. He places a gentle hand on my waist, squeezing once. “I know it’s not true. That’s also not something I’d ever think. Almost none of the players in the league have the backward mentality Williams does, and the ones that do are avoided like the plague.”

“I’m so exhausted.” I turn to face him. “So fucking exhausted of having this same conversation again and again. Why is no one questioning the men who coach in the PWHL and WNBA? Why does no one seem to mind men existing in women’s spaces, but the second the roles are reversed, suddenly it turns into a problem because we allegedly want to sleep with everyone? The man who leads a women’s college basketball team to its most NCAA championships is a hero, but the woman who leads a men’s team to the NBA finals is a whore. It’s bullshit.”

“It is bullshit,” Grant agrees. “And I don’t know the way to fix it besides calling it out when I see it and letting people know that shit isn’t going to fly around me—around a lot of us. Jaxson Delaney told me his buddy plays for the Sea Crabs and talks about how good you are at your job,” he says. “I can’t start a revolution on my own, but I’m going to try my fucking hardest to make a change.”

I stare at him—at the dried blood on his nose, at his wrinkled shirt, damp hair, and the determination etched on his face—and it hits me.

I’ve carried the burden of protecting my name and my reputation for years. In every conference room, in every meeting, in every interview with someone who doesn’t understand why I’m here, I’ve stood up for myself.

Now I have someone who can share the load of the weight I carry. Who can tap in when I can’t do it anymore, and of course it’s the same man who has been by my side all these years. Sturdy, steady. Unwavering loyalty that isn’t an act.

My heart constricts in my chest. The air leaves my lungs, and it feels like I’m taking my first breath—my first real breath—in almost a decade.

I’m going to fall in love with this man, and it’s going to be the easiest thing I’ve ever done.

“I don’t like violence.” I turn my cheek so I can kiss the center of his palm. “But knowing you put that man in his place for me?” I shake my head. “I’m so appreciative.”

“I don’t like violence either. My punches could use a lot of work. I’m probably going to turn into a meme because of how poorly I was swinging.” Grant smiles, and it’s my favorite thing. “But you’re the most important person in my life, Lia. I’m not going to let your name get dragged through the mud when I’m around. If that means decking someone in the face, so be it.”

“Men have opinions about me, and I wish they knew the truth. All I want to do is watch hockey. I want to lay the foundation for the next generation of players. I want to win games, and I don’t need a name attached to those accolades.” A soft laugh slips out. “It’s not about attention; it’s about the sport I love.”

“Come here.” He wraps me in his embrace and runs his palms down my back. I rest my cheek on his shoulder, sighing at the press of his fingers along my spine. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Lia, but for as long as you’re in the league, you’re going to have to fight off those accusations. It doesn’t help that the two of us have a personal relationship, and if you want to walk away from what we have, I’ll understand. There are thousands of guys who could take my spot on the roster, but there’s only one Coach Green. I’m a number. You’re irreplaceable, baby.”

He’s right.

It doesn’t matter how many Stanley Cups I might win with a team. There will always be people cheering for my downfall, and it’s a hard pill to swallow.

The easy thing—the smart thing—would be to recognize this is the pivotal moment in our relationship before things get too deep. It’s an opportunity for a clean break, and if this were a year ago, I’d take him up on the out he’s offering me. I’d cut my losses, wish him well, and settle back into my life of solitude.

But I don’t want solitude.

I want unpredictable and scary and reckless and thrilling, and I want it with him.

“No,” I whisper. “I want to stay right here and tackle these issues with you by my side. You give me hope, Grant. And hope is the best thing I could ever have.”

“Fuck,” he mumbles into my hair. “We’ll fight together. When we’re behind closed doors, I’ll help patch you up from whatever shit the losers of the league want to toss your way. And we’ll keep making it work.”

“Thank you for telling me what he said and not holding it in to protect my feelings. I need to know what I’m up against, and I’m going to keep fighting like hell to pave the way for all the women who come after me.”

“Always, baby. And I’m going to tell the NHLPA what Williams said, just so they can have it on their radar. I bet this is a pattern for him, and documenting it will give us the most chance of there being punishment for his dumbass actions.”

We order room service and talk about the rest of the season while we eat our sandwiches and french fries. When it’s time for Grant to leave, he kisses my forehead and promises he’ll try to catch me before I head to the airport tomorrow. Alone in my room, I fall asleep optimistic.

I can’t change the sport by myself, but with him by my side, we stand a damn good chance at making a difference.

SEVENTY-THREE