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Chapter 3

Oh no, this wouldn’t do.

This. Would. Not. Do.

Brit stared up at the obviously hastily created sign—black squiggles of Sharpie and crumpled computer paper tended to highlight that fact.

This would not do.

"Okay then. See you on the ice,” Stefan said, handing over her sticks and walking down the hall.

Brit dropped her bag to the black skate mat laid across the concrete floor, pushed open the door, and peered inside the room, just to make sure it wasn't full of her teammates, that this wasn't a lame joke for the new girl.

It wasn't.

Hot rage slid through her that she tried to swallow. She needed to be on her A-game. Needed to focus.

And this wasn't the players’ fault. Apparently, management had decided to go for this little endeavor on their own. Likely, they were trying to keep things PC in order to avoid a potential lawsuit.

But this was Brit's future.

She fumbled for the switch and flipped on the light. Her heart sank further as a wave of disappointment welled up.

It was exactly as she'd feared.

A single bench. One equipment rack.

Yup. Getting dressed by herself was sure going to help her integrate into the team.

The locker room was the heart of any hockey team, where joking and ribbing and plenty of cursing took place. It was where she'd always felt most comfortable, and where she'd been able to find at least a few allies.

How was she supposed to receive coaching sequestered by herself? Should she just watch the team bond and draw up plays without her? Miss the talk about D-pairs or changes in the system?

She wasn't the first woman to sign a contract with a professional men’s hockey team, but she was damn sure the first to have earned a chance at the backup goaltending spot.

Which might someday lead to a starting position.

A major step of which was connecting with her teammates.

Brit let the door slam closed, shouldered her bag, and walked down the hall.

She heard them before she saw them.

"Chin up," she murmured and pushed into the room.

It took a few moments for the guys to notice her. Silence fell, stifling, hot, embarrassing.

Not that a little embarrassment would stop her.

Spotting an empty bench and rack, she walked across the room. Her bag hit the floor with a thud; her sticks clacked together as she set them against the wall.

She could have heard a pin drop, could practically smell the smoke coming out of her teammates' ears.

Not about to let them get the drop on her and having been through this more than her fair share of times, Brit knew it was best to get the awkwardness over.

She unzipped her bag, hung up her gear, then toed off her shoes and stripped down.

All the way down.

“Everyone get that good look,” she said into the quiet locker room.

Her gaze slid around, meeting each of the guys' in turn. Some were obviously confused or shocked, a couple were irritated by her or her interruption, and some were typical men—if their eyes glued to her breasts were any indication.

Others—like Blane, her teammate now three times over—were familiar with her methods. He didn’t even blink at her nakedness, just kept his eyes on hers and nodded in greeting.

"Get it out of your system,” she told the interested ones, “and get over it,” she said to the irritated section. She was here to stay, and if they had a problem . . . well, they could suck it.

To the rest, she said, “Now let's play some fucking hockey."

With that, she snagged her sports bra and underwear and started getting dressed.

"Style points, sweet— I mean, Brit.”

She grinned up at Blane, who was half-dressed and standing in front of her, and feigned indifference, even though her heart was pumping with jitters. This may not be her first professional hockey rodeo, but it was still the NHL, where the best came to play.

No way she wanted to screw that up.

“You know how it is,” she told him. Her anxiety eased when he stepped closer and gave her a quick hug. It was nice to have him there, especially since the two of them went way back, having played together in juniors.

“Ten points out of ten.” His voice dropped. “You okay?”

“Now I’m fine.” She was. And as soon as she got onto the ice, she’d be even better.

“Good.”

Her lips twitched. “Good for you to catch that sweetheart.”

Blane grimaced, tapped his nose. “Hasn’t been the same since the first time I made the mistake of using it.”

She’d been young with a chip on her shoulder the size of a redwood. Blane had made the mistake of trying to prove to his friends he could get in her pants.

The result had been a broken nose for him and a month-long grounding for her.

But they’d gotten that nonsense out of the way, had settled into a warm and easy friendship.

“I’d say sorry—” she began.

“But I wouldn’t believe you anyway.” He grinned. “Glad you’re here,” he said and crossed back to his spot to finish getting dressed.

Brit grabbed her pelvis protector, pulled it on, then snagged the black and gold striped socks that had been in the other dressing room. Just as she was about to slip one over her foot, a soft voice interrupted her.

"Well done," Stefan said.

She turned to look at him, not having noticed he was in the stall next to hers, and her heart gave a little tremble.

Which she ignored. Obviously.

He raised two fingers in silent salute before continuing to get dressed.

Slowly, noise filtered back in through the room, lewd jokes punctuated by awkward pauses as the guys glanced toward her for her reaction.

"You'll have to do better than that,” she called after a particularly bad one. "I've heard that lame excuse for a joke before.”

Stefan snorted, and her eyes flashed to his. Was it pride in his gaze? Annoyance? She couldn't tell a damned thing.

She’d just knelt atop her pads and begun strapping them on when Coach Bernard came in. He hesitated for the briefest moment, as though surprised to see her, then plugged an iPad into a cord in the corner of the room.

The image on the tablet’s screen was projected onto the far wall, and he ran through each of the drills in turn.

“Move it,” he told them. “Ten minutes.”

On the way out, he paused near Brit, glared, then inclined his head to an open door just off the main part of the locker room. “When you’re finished.”

She nodded, tied the last couple of straps, and stood. Leaving her chest protector and helmet on the shelf above the bench, she walked to Bernard’s office. Her pulse raced, and her palms were sweaty.

His expression had said this chat wouldn’t be concerning her welcome party.

The buckles on her leg pads clinked when she hesitated on the threshold. Bernard glanced up from a stack of papers on his desk and waved at her. “Come in.”

Brit shuffled her way inside, waited.

Bernard studied her, his face completely impassive, and yet there was something under the surface. It wasn’t dislike exactly, but she got the feeling he hadn’t been one hundred percent on board with her being there.

Well, tough. She’d prove herself to him as well.

Just as soon as she figured out a way to end this god-awful silence.

A minute went by. He stared at her as she stood there, half-dressed and awkwardly taciturn.

Eventually, she cleared her throat and asked, “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Brittany—”

“Brit,” she interrupted automatically.

Bernard didn’t say anything for another long moment, only regarded at her with a raised brow.

Her gut went tight as she stared back. Last thing she wanted to do was get on the wrong foot with management and, between her locker room striptease and interrupting the coach, she had the feeling she was off to a very bad start.

“Brit,” he finally said, “I think you’re a good player, don’t doubt that. But I’m not sure you being here is the best thing for the Gold.”

Ouch.

The Gold were the NHL’s newest expansion team, a controversial addition—and an unnecessary one at that, some thought—in the already professionally crowded, but hockey-hungry Bay Area.

As with most expansion teams, they weren’t very good, which wasn’t unusual, but the owners were running out of patience, and the team had gotten some bad press last season: carousing, the odd DUI, then a scandal involving one of their top players and a rape allegation. Couple that with losing the majority of games . . .

Rumor had it, if the team didn’t improve this season, the owners might sell.

“You think I’m a publicity stunt.” A way to clean up the Gold’s image rather than a valuable addition to the team.

It wasn’t something she hadn’t already thought of.

Bottom line, though, was it didn’t matter what management’s motivations were. This was her chance to play at the highest level possible. To be the first woman to do so.

It was a really big deal, no matter the pushback she would have to withstand.

God knew, she’d already endured plenty of it from the media, from other players in the league, from her own mother, who worried she might be in over her head.

Outwardly, she held onto a shield of confidence, pretended all of the naysayers had no freaking clue.

But inside? She did wonder if she was good enough.

Only time would tell.

Still, Brit knew one thing. And it was a big one.

She knew she could deal with pretty much anything if it meant she could play hockey.

The sport was in her heart, in every single nerve ending and cell. She never felt more at home than when she was on the ice.

“Maybe you’re a publicity stunt. And maybe it’ll work out.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t her future he was so casually dismissing. “But my experience tells me not.”

“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.” She didn’t bother trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice. Any bridges she might have worried about conserving had been burned long before she’d even set foot in the locker room.

Bernard sighed. “You’re talented. I’ll give you that much. Your glove hand is one of the fastest I’ve ever seen. But you’re shorter than the male goalies and weak on your upper blocker side. That will need improvement if you want a chance at a start.”

“Noted,” she said. “I’ll work on it.” And she would.

“Good.” A beat of quiet. “See you on the ice.”

With a nod, she left the office, knowing that despite Bernard’s lack of confidence in her abilities, he had spoken the truth.

She was shorter. Her blocker side—the hand that held her goalie stick and was protected by a large rectangular pad—was her biggest weakness.

It wasn’t as if she could grow six inches on the spot, but . . . she could work on her technique, bust her ass, and practice hard.

Harder than she ever had before.

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