Page 119 of Cross-Checked

Instead, I’m looking around the room, keeping an eye on my players and coaching staff, and I’m beyond proud to see the way they are all nodding along with the list of strategic moves I made throughout this season to give us the best chance of getting to the exact place we are right now—about to play in the final game, hoping for the honor of bringing home the Cup.

My hand squeezes Ronan’s so tightly I’m afraid I might actually be hurting him. It’s not about the award; I just want to make the men and women in this room proud.

“And this year’s General Manager of the Year...is Alessandra Jones of the Boston Rebels!”

In the second that follows, I close my eyes and press my lips between my teeth, willing myself not to cry. I know that the cameras are on me, and the last thing I want hockey fans to see is a woman at the pinnacle of her career crying about it on national TV.

But when Ronan sweeps me into his arms and spins me around, when the people who love and support me crowdaround me with their congratulations, I can’t stop the few tears that escape. Wiping them away, I accept all the hugs and congratulations until a camera is shoved into my face and the female reporter steps up next to me.

“Can you tell us what receiving this award means to you?” she asks me.

“It means she’s amazing,” Colt yells, and I can’t help the small laugh that bubbles from my lips as I gently wipe any moisture from under my eyes.

“Honestly, it’s just an honor to get to do what I do every day,” I say. “And to be recognized for it in this way, by my colleagues and the league and the media—it’s the honor of a lifetime. But now the work begins again. We have a game to play, and fans who are counting on us to bring home the second Cup this decade.”

Cheers rise up around the room and I turn away from the cameras, signaling that the interview is over. There will be an awards night later this month where I’ll have to give an actual speech, but right now, the focus needs to be on this game.

The press is ushered out of the room, and most of the Rebels staff leaves too, until it’s just Charlie and the other coaches, the players, Frank, and me. Charlie doesn’t give his normal pre-game pep talk. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “We’ve played six games against St. Louis. We’ve won half and they’ve won half. I don’t need to go over their strengths or their weaknesses—you already know them. What I do want to tell you before you take the ice tonight is thatyouare the better team. You deserve this win. But it will only happen if every single one of you goes out there and gives it your all for the next sixty minutes of play. No distractions. No mistakes. Do. Your. Job.”

With that, he claps his hand against his clipboard, quickly glances at his phone, and tells the men to line up. As they do, he whispers something to his assistant coach, Lloyd, and steps outthe door. He never leaves the locker room before our players, and goosebumps prickle the back of my neck as I watch the door close behind him.

Lloyd makes a few more comments that I’m only half listening to, and then he holds the door open, fist bumping every player on their way out. Colt and Hartmann bring up the rear, and I follow behind them.

Charlie is halfway down the hall, his clipboard tucked between his elbow and his ribs as he holds the phone to his ear with one hand, and presses a finger against his other ear. I see the worry on his face when he looks up and his eyes meet mine.

“Okay. Keep me posted,” he says into the phone. “I love you too.”

“Everything okay?” I ask, coming to a stop in front of him as he pockets his phone, just as the line of players finish filing by.

“Eva just was sent to the hospital. Helene is flying to New York?—”

“Wait!” Hartmann says, spinning back around to face us. “What’s wrong with Evie?”

My eyebrows dip. I know the Wilcotts and Hartmanns are family friends, but the concern in his voice borders on panic.

“We don’t know yet,” Charlie tells him. “She was rushed to the ER during the layover on her flight back from Europe. I’m sure everything’s going to be fine. Now get out there.”

The worry in Charlie’s tone doesn’t imply that he’s sure his daughter is okay. In response, Hartmann nods then slowly turns around, and I watch his shoulders tense as he walks to the back of the line of his teammates.

Making a mental note to check in with Charlie about Eva after the game, I head in the opposite direction to meet up with Nicholas and Abby. I find them at ice level, with most of the families waiting to see the players during warmups, andAbby’s wearing the infant-sized McCabe jersey we got her for the occasion.

When Ronan sees us there, he skates over and taps the glass to get Abby’s attention. She’s got small, pink noise-canceling earmuffs on, but when she sees him there, she starts kicking her feet in excitement, and her face splits into a huge smile. She’s got four teeth now, and a never-ending volume of drool, so I take the cloth hanging out of Nicholas’s back pocket and wipe her chin. When she turns her head to look at me, her smile grows wider.

Glancing up, I see that Ronan is looking down at me from the other side of the glass, nothing but love in his eyes as he shifts his gaze between me and our baby.

Our.I don’t know that I’ve ever used that word in relation to Abby, but it feels right. She and Ronan are mine...the family I never thought I’d have.

God, not having to hide this anymore is the best feeling in the world.

I can’t wait until later tonight when I can show him the custom tank top I’m wearing under this suit coat tonight. As GM, I can’t show up in his jersey to a game. But I can have Jules make me an incredibly sexy top with the number 9 sewn onto the back, and I can have her make me a matching thong. And most importantly, I can model them both for him in the privacy of our bedroom, before he strips them off me and takes care of me like only he can.

As if he can read my mind and already knows about my plans for later tonight, his pupils dilate while his eyes focus on my lips. The ever-present hunger is written across his face, like it is any time he sees me.

“Knock it off,” Nicholas mutters from beside me as he watches us. “No one needs to see this.”

I shake my head slightly as I snap back to reality. He’s right, of course—not here, at work.

“Good luck,” I tell Ronan. “You’ve got this.”

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