Page 21 of Cross-Checked

Not mine, though. Definitely. Not. Mine.

The entire crowd makes a collective “oooo” sound, and that’s when Lauren’s elbow meets mine, and I glance up at the Jumbotron. McCabe’s stupidly handsome face is plastered there, head tilted back and his huge green eye staring up. Next to him, in big white block letters, it says, “Who’s McCabe looking at?”

I glance down at Abby before the camera can pan to me, because even though I know it will anyway, I don’t need to seemyself enlarged up there as well. Hopefully, all they’ll focus on is his baby, not me.

“All clear,” Lauren whispers a few seconds later, and when I glance up, the video on the screen is showing the players lining up for the first face off of the second period.

“How long was I up there for?”

“Just a few seconds. Saved by the start of the period.”

Shit.I probably should have stayed in the owner’s box. Because now I see what McCabe was talking about in the locker room—his GM watching his kid during a game is likely not something that would ever have happened if I was a male.

There’s no doubt it was the right call, the necessary move in the moment. But I can’t help wondering how the public will perceive it, or how my colleagues will view it when it comes time for the final votes for GM of the Year to be cast.

Chapter Ten

McCabe

“Ineed you for the press,” AJ tells me when I’m walking down the hall toward the locker room after a tough loss tonight. I didn’t play my best, and I know I was distracted—a point that was made abundantly clear when AJ came down to the glass before we cleared the bench at the end of the second period and read me the fucking riot act. In front of my teammates. In front of the crowd.

“Not tonight.” I barely get the words out through my clenched teeth. I’m pissed—a little at her for calling me out publicly, but mostly at me for letting myself get distracted like that during a game.

She assured me that Abby would be fine with her. But I spent so much of the first period trying to get my eyes on them, to see for myself that Abby was okay, that she had to come down and sit in the stands just so I could focus on the game.

And every single time I glanced over after that, Abby was contentedly snuggled into AJ, probably asleep. I wish I could say that I kept glancing over because I was worried about Abby, but the truth—a truth I willneverreveal to a single living soul—is that I couldn’t stop looking atherholding my baby.

Seeing AJ with Abby was like seeing a whole other side of her. A softer side that I hadn’t seen her reveal in years. I want to forget what she used to be like, before her asshole ex-husband hardened her, before she had to seal herself off because now she’s everyone’s boss.

Because that version of AJ—the one I saw when she was the scout who recruited me to the NHL, and the one I still saw glimpses of after she was promoted to assistant GM in St. Louis—that’s the version of her I could have had feelings for, if she wasn’t married at the time.

“Listen,” she says, one hand on the stroller as she pushes it back and forth. I glance down to see Abby sleeping peacefully, no trace of the fussiness she normally exhibits around strangers. “You need to be in there because there wasanotherfight in the stands tonight. It’s the third home game in a row that this has happened at, and it’s always our fans, and they’re always wearing your jersey.”

“I don’t have control over how the fans act, AJ.”

“You have a lot more influence than you realize. And this organization needs you to say something about what’s acceptable behavior for our fans, because this reflects poorly on Boston...on our players, our fans, our arena. Every aspect of this organization suffers from shit like this. You have to see that.”

“Sure.” I shrug. “But I’m not our fans’ behavior police.”

“I don’t need you to be the behavior police. I need you, when asked what you think about the recent fights that have broken out in the stands, to say something about appreciating the fans’ enthusiasm, but that fighting’s not acceptable behavior at games, except between players on the ice.”

My fists clench and I pause for a brief second, wondering if she’s intentionally goading me. Because the last time I got in afight off the ice, she traded my ass so fast I was left wondering what the hell had happened.

“I don’t need the fucking reminder that off-ice fighting isn’t okay,” I tell her, hating how I can feel my cheeks burning. I live with that reminder every day. My heart still breaks every single time I think about what I missed out on when I was traded to Boston. “But neither you nor I have control over what fans do in the stands.”

“See, you keep saying that, but I don’t think that’s true. These are grown men who idolize you because you’re living the dream they never achieved. You tell them to change their behavior, and I bet they’ll fall in line.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “We’ll never know, will we?”

“You have ten minutes to change and be in that pressroom. I’ll see you there.”

I glance down, wanting to stroke my daughter’s cheek but afraid I’ll wake her. “What about Abby?”

“Lauren’s going to stay and watch her so I can be at the press conference.”

“Making sureIfall into line?” I ask with a raised eyebrow, so she might think I’m teasing. But I’m not, and I’m sure she knows it.

“Someone’s got to, McCabe.”

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