Page 31 of On the Line

I wonder how much to tell her, and then figure that she’s right. Being a woman in sports is hard enough—so I guess having someone else to confide in can only help.

“When I got my first job at Kaplan, most of my colleagues assumed it was because Carson is my uncle.”

I watch a laugh roll around in AJ’s throat, and her chest shakes with it. “I’ve known Carson for probably close to two decades, and one thing I can say for sure is that he wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you deserved it. Even if you are his niece.”

I think about the time, years ago, when I finally got the nerve up to ask my uncle about his decision. By that point, I’d proven myself at Kaplan over and over again, but part of me wondered if other people I worked with still harbored the belief that I hadn’t earned my position there.

Carson asked, “Do you think I’d have hired you if I wasn’t one hundred percent confident that you could do the job?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t more qualified candidates.”

“I knew you’d be good at this, could manage the stress, and make it look easy,” he said. “So who the fuck cares if there were other qualified candidates? I. Wanted. You.”

I glance over at AJ as the memory flashes through my head, and she says, “And I think you know you deserved that job too.”

“I do. And I did then. But I’m also a realist and getting that job through a family connection made it that much harder to prove myself at work.”

“Yet you did prove yourself. Which means you worked harder and smarter than a lot of other people.”

I laugh a little at that. It feels like this woman knows me because she’s been me, earlier in her career when she had to overcome similar obstacles. “That’s true too.”

“You’re probably asking yourself why I’m even involved in this hiring process when I’m the GM?”

I give her a little nod with my eyebrows raised. That question has been percolating in the back of my mind. I would think she would only be involved in hiring that related to roles that affect the team—the players, coaches, athletic trainers, that type of thing.

“Managing this team means not only recruiting the best players and coaches but also shaping the way information is communicated about the team. I didn’t get involved because Jameson recommended you. I got involved because the last person in this job slept with one of my players, and that’s not the type of organization I’m trying to build here. I’m already dealing with that player, but I need to make sure I can trust whoever takes this position.” She drums her fingers against her elbows as she looks at me. “With you, I see another female who loves the sport, not just the players. I see someone who’s early enough in their career to still have a lot of growth potential but experienced enough to add value immediately. Plus, Patrick was pretty much sold on you before he even met you too.”

“I’m really excited about the opportunity to work with you both,” I tell her. “I’ve been a Rebels fan since I was a kid. I think my dad taught me the Rebel Chant before I could even speak in full sentences.”

“Don’t worry,” she says with a smile, “that’s not a prerequisite for working here. We save that for the fans.”

“Oh ...” My smile reflects my enthusiasm. “I already have so many ideas for how to leverage that for some great marketing content.”

“And this,” she says definitively, “is why the job is already yours.”

CHAPTER11

JAMESON

I finish the skills sequence I’m leading the boys through, turn my skates to come to a stop, and glance over at the stands in time to see Lauren sitting down with one of those disposable trays of take-out hot chocolates. I tear my eyes away before anyone can notice me watching her, and focus on five-year-old Caleb, who’s at the front of the line. Unlike the majority of my team of mini hockey players, Caleb shows a ton of potential.

“All right, Caleb. Go!”

He speeds off the goal line, jumps over the stick laid across the ice, and angles himself right as I pass the puck toward him. It makes contact with his stick, and he begins to roll the wrist of his top hand back and forth, showing quality stick handling and puck control as he moves toward the wide-open net, and easily taps it in. Not bad for a five-year-old.

“Nice job, Caleb! Hey, Tommy,” I shout toward the next kid in line, our oldest player who’s goofing off with his friend and isn’t ready to go. “You going to practice some hockey, or what?”

He turns toward me right as I yell, “Go!” but he’s slower getting off the line than he should be. “Gotta speed up if you’re going to make it over the stick,” I say, and he digs his inside edges in a bit harder, but his legs are wider than they should be. “Feet closer together!”

“I know how to skate,” he grunts, but as he takes the small jump, he barely leaves the ice and catches a blade on the stick. He lands face-first, spinning off toward center ice.

I push off, and when I stop in front of him, he looks up at me with tears of frustration and embarrassment in his eyes. I sink to my knees at his side. “So here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to get up, skate back to that start line, and do it again. But this time you’re coming off that line with some power. Keep your skates in a more neutral stance when you go to jump over the stick, get in position, and I’ll have the puck waiting for you.”

I can tell he wants to say something, but he’s holding back. He pushes up to his hands and knees, grunts out “Fine,” and pops up onto his skates. I’m not sure what the chip on his shoulder is all about, but he acts like he doesn’t need a coach and then makes mistakes that could have been avoided if he’d just listened. He’ll get it eventually, but he’s making it harder on himself. I make a mental note to chat with his mom about what’s going on.

When we’re done, I skate over to the boards and step through the door, then walk over to where my family sits with Lauren and her kids. It feels so natural to see her here, and I have to remind myself that she’s here to hang out with my sisters, not because of me.

Lauren’s sitting a few rows up, in the seat on the end, and she leans down toward where I stand on the mats next to the seats, her voice teasing when she says, “Looking a little rusty out there, Flynn.”

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