Page 22 of Cross-Checked

I take a small step toward her. She’s tall, but she still has to look up at me from this distance. “And you think it’s going to be you?”

The question is bordering on flirting. It’s the kind of thing I’d have said to her eight years ago, and I need to shut that shit down. Because no matter how attractive I find her, and it’s even more so after seeing her with Abby, I know thatnothingcomes before hockey for AJ.

She not only traded me, but she demoted her own husband after that fight, sending him back to the AHL as a head coachand calling it a promotion. No one was fooled, because clearly an assistant coaching job in the pros is a step up from a head coaching job in the minors.

She squares her shoulders, and I have to wonder if the bead of sweat that falls from my hair down the side of my face is from the game I just played, or from sparring with her.

Her dark eyes narrow. “It’s either going to be me, or it’s going to be your next GM. I guess it depends on how badly you want to stay in Boston.”

I swear ice runs through her veins, because this woman can be painfully cold. I don’t know why I like that side of her so much.

“I guess we’ll see, then,” I say, before turning and heading into the locker room to get changed for a press conference I don’t want to attend.

When I take my seat at the table in front of the microphones, Walsh on one side of me and Colt on the other, I wish we’d had time to shower. Because it’s hot as hell in this small room, and even the clean t-shirts we changed into and the Rebels hats we threw on to hold our sweaty hair out of our faces are doing nothing to hide the stench of three guys who just played their asses off and still came up short.

The first few questions are about the game—about what we could have done differently, whether we got just a little bit cocky after sweeping Carolina in the last series, and what we plan to do differently when we take Philadelphia on again in two days. Our answers are the same, bland answers we always give because we can’t say anything about strategy, our players’ strengths, or the other team’s weaknesses.

And the longer we sit there, avoiding their questions, the more annoyed I am that we constantly have to play this stupid game with the press. We’re never going to give them the answers they’re looking for, but we have to sit here pretending after everygame. All I want to do is hop on the bike and move some of this lactic acid out of my legs, which are already starting to cramp up, and then get Abby home and in bed.

So when the question comes, I’m already in a bad mood. And even though AJ told me how she wanted me to respond—maybe evenbecauseshe practically dictated my response and then threatened not to renew my contract if I didn’t act accordingly—I do the exact opposite.

When the friendly question is lobbed my way, asking what I think about the fact that so many fights have broken out at our home games lately, I say, “Idon’tthink about it.”

Beside me, Colt clears his throat, clearly telling me that wasn’t the right answer.

“In every instance, the fans involved were wearing your jersey,” the reporter says. “What would you say to those fans? Do you condone their actions?”

My eyes flick to AJ where she’s standing in the back of the room, her face unreadable—just how she seems to like it. I don’t take my eyes off her when I respond. “Hockey can be a violent sport. But being the captain of my team doesn’t mean I’m in charge of the fans. So I don’t have anything to say about their behavior.”

I hear the low groan that rattles out from both Walsh and Colt, too quietly for the microphones to pick up, but I don’t give a shit. All I care about is the fire I see brewing in AJ’s eyes. I like that way more than the impassive expression she was wearing a moment ago.

“Was your daughter in the stands tonight?” The question rings out from a reporter I most definitely didn’t call on, so I should probably ignore it. But when I get riled up, I have a hard time controlling my mouth.

“Why is that your business?” I ask as my head snaps to the young woman who’s new this year.

“Well, when your general manager is the only female up for the GM of the Year award, but then appears to be babysitting your kid at a game”—she looks around at the other reporters—“we naturally have questions about that.”

I scoff, about to respond with a very sarcastic, “Naturally,” when AJ’s voice takes over from the back of the room.

“I’d like to take that question, since it’s about me,” she says, taking the steps down the side of the room until she’s on the same level as the table where we’re sitting. “I was notaskedto watch McCabe’s daughter tonight; Iinsistedon it. And I don’t like the implication that it’s because I’m a woman.”

She levels the young female reporter with a look that has her shrinking back in her seat. “When you’re the general manager of a team, you make hard decisions. But helping a player out when his nanny doesn’t show up isn’t one of them. That decision was easy. He needed to play, and I had the power to make that happen.” She folds her arms under her chest and lifts her chin as she adds defiantly, “If there’s another GM in the league who wouldn’t have done the same in that situation, maybe he doesn’t truly have the best interests of his team at heart.”

It’s mayhem as everyone throws more questions out, but AJ remains eerily calm as she says, “Thanks so much for your questions, but we’re going to let our players wrap up their night. See you again after our next game.”

She turns and is the first one out the door, but when Walsh, Colt, and I follow her into the hall, she grasps my forearm. Looking up at me with searing intensity, she says, “My office. Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”

And then she’s off down the hall, her hips swaying beneath her blazer in a way that has me entirely too focused on her ass.

“Shit, man,” Colt says once AJ is out of earshot.

“We were even told we were getting that question ahead of time,” Walsh says. “How’d you fuck it up so bad?”

“I didn’t fuck it up,” I tell them. “I said exactly what I told her I was going to say.”

“Why are you always trying to piss her off?” Colt asks, eyebrow lifting as he looks at me.

“I’m not.” It’s a lie. “Nothing I said was untrue. Being the captain of the team doesn’t mean I have to babysit the fans.”

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