CHAPTER ONE

Piper

I hate hockey players.

Male hockey players, to be specific. 

Especially the professional variety. 

There’s the odd good one out there, but it takes a lot to convince me. 

I’ve seen far too much.

Players who earn their place with talent but then coast along, making millions based on their former glory and sponsorships. 

Players who pick up women, feeding into their dreams of forever, but using them for one night.

Players who let other people lift them to the top, and then forget them once they reach the apex.

I’m over it.

But, if I want the Women’s Major Hockey league to have any sort of chance of sticking around – which of course I do, for the sport and to keep a job doing what I love – I’ve got to put a smile on my face and pretend that the Valkyries and the Northstars are one big happy family.

Which brings us to today.

“Piper, thank you for doing this.”

Veronica, the Northstars’ media coordinator, greets me with a warm smile as I walk into the press room at the Pacific Crown Arena.

I’m familiar with it, as we finished our season here last year, being “given” access to the arena once the men’s professional team, the Vancouver Northstars, lost out on their own playoff run. 

“Of course,” I say, even though I’m far from pleased about this. 

“You’ve been briefed on the notes?” 

“I have,” I say. “Is Jennifer here?”

Jennifer is our own media coordinator, but unlike Veronica, who has a team of people working under her, Jennifer is a one-woman operation.

“She texted me that she’s running late, but she should be here shortly. I’m happy to answer any questions you might have.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say. I’ve done enough press conferences in my life. “Will I go first or will the Northstars’ captain?”

I can’t bring myself to say his name. 

“We were thinking that you and Max could speak together,” she says with a bright smile, and I force a brittle one on my face.

“Great,” I say, knowing it sounds sarcastic as I look around. “Is he here?”

“Not yet. The team was just finishing practice when I came up here.”

Not wanting to sit in the hot seat until it’s time, I’m still standing in a semi-circle of folding chairs and microphones when a familiar, unwelcome presence breezes through the door. 

Max Murphy. 

Team captain for the Vancouver Northstars. 

Hockey heartthrob. 

Millionaire.

Mr. Dependable on the ice. 

Canada’s most eligible bachelor off of it.

He’s made some effort today, I’ll admit, as I watch him from across the room. He obviously hasn’t noticed me yet, for that sneer has not yet crossed his face.

His hair is neatly styled, and his dark, certainly expensive, navy suit fits him well. The gold watch peeking out from his cuff is probably worth more than my car. 

He looks like he’s shooting a commercial for expensive wristwear, not about to play ambassador for a sport he barely tolerates unless he’s getting paid.

He spots me and only lets his expression drop briefly before he smiles with all the teeth of a toothpaste ad, although it’s not for me but for everyone else looking on.

“Piper! Looking sharp,” he says, as though I should be flattered, running his eyes up and down my body.

Jaclyn, one of my teammates, helped style me, but I still feel rather dowdy next to him in my dress pants and blazer. 

I didn’t have a lot of time to work on my hair between practice at the Raven Ice Centre on the university campus and rushing here downtown, but I did manage a quick blow dry that leaves it in waves around my shoulders. 

“Murphy,” I reply flatly, though I maintain eye contact just a second longer than is comfortable. Years of playing the role of spokesperson have trained me in the art of not blinking first.

Veronica has opened the doors, and the media has started to trickle in, although it’s about half the size of a usual post-game — a Northstars post-game — as this announcement doesn’t promise anything particularly earth-shattering.

“Shall we?” he says, waving to the table in front of us.

Not like we have much other choice. I nod and follow him up. This is his house, after all, despite our guest appearance last playoffs. 

He takes a seat beside me, spinning his chair one way and then the other before he starts fiddling with his mic, turning the whole contraption so that his side faces the audience, and the cameras get his jawline at maximum definition. 

“We ready to roll, or do we have to wait for the bigwigs?” he asks into the darkness in front of us.

Veronica swoops back in, checks the settings, and straightens the notepads. 

“We’ll get started right away,” she says, her enthusiasm a little too forced. “Everyone’s excited about the new collaboration between the teams, right?”

Max winks at the nearest camera. “Absolutely. Couldn’t be happier to be working with the Valkyries, having them teach us how it’s really done.”

I bite my tongue before anything sharp escapes it.

Veronica shoots me a warning look—herding cats is her life—so I keep my smile frozen and my posture impeccable. The photo backdrop is branded with both of our logos, a marriage of equals that is, in reality, anything but.

The first reporter, a local stringer for the Sun, directs his question at Max. “Do you think sharing the arena with the Valkyries will affect your training schedule?”

“Not at all,” Max says, not missing a beat. “They will still be practicing in their home rink, and the only games here will be when we play back-to-back, so there will be no overlap. Besides, maybe we can pick up a thing or two from these ladies. Hell, I’ve seen them play. They’re tough.” He turns to me like we’re old friends, though I can feel the condescension dripping from his words. “You guys don’t mess around.”

I refuse to let him redirect that backhanded compliment. 

“We take our training very seriously,” I say. “And we’re happy to have the opportunity to play some of our games at the Pacific Crown Arena. Women’s teams have been shut out of pro facilities for too long.”

I’m happy to play here, yes, but to only play a handful of games here throughout the season? All it does is create frustrating logistics for our staff, though I appreciate the effort to bring more fans to our games. I only hope they’ll be the kind of fans we want.

“Our purpose this season is to grow the game of hockey in Vancouver,” Max says. “We’re looking forward to working with boys and girls programs in the city together.”

“Will you be working with Ryan Cole and his Open Ice Initiative?” another reporter — Greg Anderson, the guy is obsessed with Ryan — asks out of turn.

“We will be doing so, yes,” Max says, knowing more about Ryan’s charity organization than I do. “The players the charity sponsors will be involved in some of our initiatives.”

The next question comes from the CBC reporter. She’s young, maybe one of the first women they’ve sent to cover this beat, and she throws me a lifeline. “Piper, how do you see the joint initiative helping promote female hockey in Vancouver?”

I square up to the microphone. “Visibility is everything,” I say. “Having the chance to showcase our game with the same resources as the men’s teams changes everything. It chips away at the old idea that women’s hockey is somehow less. Our players work just as hard. We deserve the same stage. When girls have more opportunities to see role models of their own gender, it can encourage them that there’s a future in hockey for them. Partnering with the Northstars brings more visibility, which we appreciate. We’ll be hosting events through the season to showcase our game.”

The answer is a little too earnest and probably won’t make the news cut, but I mean every word of it. 

Max looks surprised, but only for a millisecond before he resumes his default setting of easy charm.

We run the gauntlet of questions, every one of Max’s answers smoothed out and friendly, mine measured and professional. I can feel the microaggressions in the air, especially when they ask about the differences still remaining between the men’s game and ours.

He’ll be referred to as a “leader” while I’ll be labelled “outspoken.” He’ll be described as “charming,” me, “intense.”  

I’ve read it all before.

After the conference, Veronica corrals Max for a solo TV interview, leaving me at the mercy of a donut-laden press table and Jennifer, who’s just arrived, slightly breathless and apologizing in a flurry.

“I saw most of the conference. You held your own,” she says, stuffing a blueberry fritter into her mouth. “Did you see the look on his face when you brought up pay disparity?”

“I wasn’t going to let it slide,” I murmur. “I’m a realist. I know we’ll never be paid close to what the men are, and no one is at fault for the differences in our fan bases. But it would be nice if all of our players could make enough to cover a mortgage in Vancouver.”

“Good,” Jennifer says, and for a moment, something tight in my chest uncoils. “People notice.”

Across the room, Max is laughing with the camera crew, making the most of his two minutes. I wonder if he goes home to a mirror and practices his lines, or if the world, with its endless soft landings for a guy like him, has just convinced him he never needs to.

I leave before he can track me down for a handshake or a patronizing shoulder clap. Out in the corridor, the echo of my boots on tile is the only thing chasing me. The air out here is colder. Cleaner, too. In the empty hallway, I almost allow myself a real smile.

Another step forward, I think. A small one.

This Vancouver Hockey Initiative, intended to grow the game, is a good one, and I’m happy about it, but for one small problem — that I have to do it with Max Murphy.

I honestly can’t remember when I started hating him.

It was a gradual thing. 

I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the more time I spent in his presence, the more he reminded me of the past I had left behind, and only convinced me that I had to continue to do what I had always done, which was maintain as much distance as possible from hockey players like Max.

The skies are grey and cloudy as I hurry out of the arena toward my car, unlocking the doors before I get to the Subaru Outback I bought last year.

It’s five years old, but it’s in good shape. It fits any equipment I need, and when I want to get out of the city, I can fit camping gear. Best of all, there’s plenty of room for Cooper, my golden retriever, who refuses to be left behind when he knows I’m heading out for a run or a hike. 

Just as I’m getting into my car, the skies open and the rain starts drizzling down. I duck my head in as quickly as I can, turning on the windshield wipers. 

I put the car in reverse and start backing out of my parking spot, squinting to see out the back windshield, as the wiper blade isn’t exactly doing its job.

I hear a shout from in front of me and turn my head, just in time for a huge jolt and a “crunch” to reverberate through me and the vehicle.

Shit.

I still for a moment, taking a breath before opening the door and stepping out into the rain. 

I have an umbrella in the back of the Outback, and open the back door, leaning in to grab it before going out to see what I’ve hit.

Probably one of those stupid poles with a cement ring around the bottom, just high enough that you can never see it until it’s too late.

I straighten, open the umbrella, and turn.

Just in time to see a very tall, very mad, very wet Max Murphy staring back at me.