Page 118 of Cross-Checked

It’s only then that I realize that Joey, happily married for the past twenty years and having witnessed the dissolution of my and Chet’s marriage, iscompletelyon my side. He didn’t show all his cards when we both worked in St. Louis, but now I understand that this is at least part of why he agreed to sendChet down to the AHL, and keep him there for nearly seven years.

“That’s different,” Chet insists.

“Why?” Joey asks, raising his eyebrows toward Chet like he’s offering him an opportunity to defend himself, even while we both know he can’t.

“Because she put her job before our marriage.”

“Did she?” Joey asks. “Or did she just have a more important job than you, and you were jealous?

“My job was important too!”

God he sounds like a fucking toddler, and I can tell Joey’s thinking something similar by the way he’s clearly trying not to laugh.

“You were an assistant coach,” Joey reminds him, “and completely replaceable. Even now, you’re replaceable. In fact, your services are no longer needed.”

“But,” Chet stutters, “we have a game.”

“And somehow I think the other coaches will manage without you.”

“It’s the playoffs. You can’t head into this game short one coach.” Chet’s eyes flick to me, as if this situation is my fault. Over the years, I’d occasionally wondered if he ever learned how to take accountability for his actions instead of blaming everyone else. Apparently not.

“Watch me,” Joey replies, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“You can’t do this,” Chet says, eyes wide with rage and bewilderment. “I have a contract.”

“Yes, and you’re an at-will employee. Seems I no longer have the will to employ you.”

“You’re doing this because ofher.”

His glare has absolutely no effect on me. I just cross my arms and sigh. “Chet, grow the fuck up. Learn to accept responsibilityfor your actions, and just...stop being such a shitty person. Go crawl back home to your wife and hope she forgives you for losing your job by being an asshole. Again.”

Once Chet’s stormed off, Joey turns to me, clasping my biceps in each of his hands and giving me a supportive squeeze. “At the risk of sounding like a patronizing old man...I’m proud of you. The way you left, moved on, and did so much more with your life once you rid yourself of him, the way you’ve led this organization,” he says, letting his gaze roam around the hallway of our home arena. “You deserve all the good things coming your way.”

“About that,” I say with a smile. “Pretty sure I withdrew from that award nomination...”

“Pretty sure you deserve it anyway,” he says, giving me a wink before he turns and heads into his team’s locker room.

I take a deep breath and exhale, letting the tension go as a deep sense of peace washes over me. Whatever happens in this game—in this series—I’m proud of this team. And I’m proud of myself, too.

Chapter Forty-One

AJ

The crowd in the locker room before Game 7 is unlike any I’ve ever seen. Normally, Charlie likes to keep it just coaches, players, me, and occasionally Frank. But because the GM of the Year announcement will be made during tonight’s pre-game programming, the large TV on the wall of the visitors’ locker room is on, and every member of the Rebels organization who has traveled to St. Louis for the final game is standing here in this huge semicircle that extends around the perimeter of the room.

In the middle of the room are two cameramen on their knees, with their cameras pointing at me. Behind me is the same reporter from the press conference a month ago—the one who asked our then-surly captain about fighting in the stands. It makes me realize that I never gave him the opportunity to make that right.

On my left , Ronan has had a tight grip on my hand since they said they’d be back with the announcement after the commercial break. On my right, Lauren’s arm is linked with mine.

I’m trying not to let the pressure of the series or the award get to me, but I feel like I’m strung so tight I’m about to burst.

“Relax,” he whispers, low and dragged out in the same way he might say it if he were sliding into me, and my thighs clench in response.

“Not helping,” I mutter, and his low rumble of laughter tells me he knows exactly what that word has done to me.

Dropping his voice even lower, he leans over and says into my ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of you later tonight.”

I don’t have time to respond before the programming starts back up and a hushed silence falls over the room as we watch the compilation video highlighting each GM’s journey and the reasons we were nominated for the award. Joey is first, and I’m as proud of my mentor now as I have been the other three times he’s been nominated. When they get to me, I’m listening but not watching.

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