Slap Shot

Professional athletes hate meetings. I think most people hate meetings, to be honest, but this goes double for athletes. Good things rarely happen in boardroom conversations between sponsors in fancy suits tapping away furiously on their phones, and the athletes actually doing the work, busting our asses out on the ice. Suits have far too many demands for people out-of-touch with what's actually happening in the rink.

"I don't like this," I mutter, narrowing my eyes as I take in the stiff-backed corporate schmucks with their pressed blazers, glossy hair, and sharp gazes.

Beside me, Allie is scrolling on her phone and chewing a giant wad of bubble gum. "Liv, you never like these kinds of things," she responds in a flat, bored voice.

"This is worse somehow," I growl, running a frustrated hand through my short-cropped, muddy-brown hair. "Can't you feel it? Something's off about all this."

Without lifting her head, Allie sighs and drags her gaze across the room. Her finger hovers above her phone screen, paused in its scrolling as she looks at our surroundings for the first time since she sat in the chair beside me. Then she returns her gaze to her phone, her finger resuming its scrolling. "All I feel is how goddamn hot it is in here. Someone needs to turn down the thermostat at least ten degrees, or I'm going to start throat-punching people."

There's movement to my right as a figure slides into the black chair next to me. "Who does Allie want to throat punch this time?"

I shift my gaze from glaring at the suits across the room to greet Max, who is already adjusting the seat height to accommodate his long, lanky legs. Lifting my chin in greeting, I grunt at him. "Hey, Max. Just in time to watch this shit show go down."

Allie leans past me so she can arch a dark eyebrow at Max. "What are you doing here, stick boy? You never come to these."

Max pushes a hand through his dark, curly hair and sits up a little straighter. "I'm as much a Valkyrie as you and Olivia."

Allie snorts. "Look, I'm not arguing. But last time I checked, you don't exactly make a habit of attending meetings."

Max gives her a flat stare. "It's mandatory."

"And that's made you come before when?" she fires back.

I'm barely listening. I've returned my glare to the suits standing along the far wall, and I keep noticing small details that only increase my agitation.

That woman—the one tapping her heel—she keeps checking the time, I note, narrowing my eyes. Why is she so antsy? The man next to her whispers in her ear every time he gets a text, and then her heel taps even faster. Those three men to the side over there aren't saying a damn thing... they practically look like statues. Why are they so tense?

But one thing in particular stands out that makes my fight-or-flight kick in something fierce.

"Why are none of them sitting down?"

Max and Allie stop their chatter at my question, both of them turning quizzical gazes to me.

"What?" Max asks, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses and shifting his gaze to follow my glare. "Who?"

"The suits," I whisper. "They're all standing against that wall over there."

Allie frowns, finally noticing the same thing I have: All twenty-three members of the Milwaukee Valkyries (twenty-four if we're counting Max as the Equipment Manager)—dressed in jeans, t-shirts, and hoodies—are sitting in black-and-silver swivel chairs while all the corporate snobs are lined up along the far wall.

"Maybe they... just want to stretch their legs?" Allie says, her voice wavering in uncertainty.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. "Have you ever known a suit to turn down a seat?"

She considers for a moment, then she sits up straighter before turning her gaze back to the group of men and women across the room. Slowly, Allie slides her phone into her pocket. "No. I haven't."

Max shifts in his chair. "What do you think it means?" he asks, his voice low.

I purse my lips, considering. Then, glancing at each of them, I answer quietly, "They aren't staying long."

Allie hisses between her teeth. "Shit."

Max looks between us. "What?"

Allie fixes a sharp look at me. "But the season hasn't even started yet!"

"I know," I mutter. "That's what makes it worse."

Max waves at us. "Hello? What's going on?"

"They can't do this to us already!" Allie protests, her voice barely above a whisper. "We have contracts!"

I glance at her grimly. "They won't protect us forever."

Max leans over, stretching a long, tawny-brown arm in front of both of us, and snaps three times to get our attention. When Allie and I look at him, his thick eyebrows are knitted together in confused consternation. "Hey. Tweedledee and Tweedledum. What the fuck is going on?" He points to himself emphatically. "Some of us haven't been to these meetings. Remember?"

I take a breath and cross my arms over my chest, trying to fight off the tension that's building in my stomach. "The suits represent our sponsor companies. They're the minions sent by the shitbags that pull the strings around here. If they aren't staying long in a meeting scheduled to last an hour, that means they're about to drop a bomb and leave us scramble around to deal with the fallout."

His eyes scan my face, and I can practically see the pieces falling into place as he thinks through my words. Sponsors. Drop a bomb. Fallout.

Then his eyes widen. "No." He looks between Allie and me again, and we both nod darkly at him. "No! They can't do that, can they? The season hasn't even started yet!"

Allie nods. "Yup."

"And we have contracts!" he continues in a sharp hiss.

I nod. "Yup."

He opens his mouth to say something else, but the boardroom door swings open and catches our attention. All eyes fall on the two people who enter, a hush falling over the group. I immediately recognize the first person—our head coach, Lila Dubois, who's wearing a maroon Milwaukee Valkyries windbreaker and visor, her dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail atop her head and spilling down to her shoulders. Behind her is a short, perky blonde woman in high heels and a pencil skirt that hugs her petite body's curves in a way that screams Marketing.

I ball my hands into fists. I hate her already.

Coach Dubois holds the door open for Miss Marketing, who practically bounces past her like a ball that escaped a four-square game on an elementary school playground. After letting the door ease closed, Coach Dubois follows behind the peppy blonde and shoves her hands in her pockets. As she walks up to the front of the room, she scans the attendees with dark, sharp eyes.

Coach Dubois' gaze lands on me. I raise my brows questioningly. Her lips press into a thin line and turn down at the corners. Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head.

My stomach goes cold. Shit.

"Good morning, everyone!" says the peppy blonde, her voice coming out in a chipper sing-song that makes me want to slap the bright-pink lipstick off her face. "Let's quiet down, alright?"

Max, Allie, and I all exchange glances. No one's talking.

"Thank you!" she says with a radiant smile that shows off perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. "I appreciate your patience; I promise we won't keep you for very long."

I can't help but notice she addresses this comment to the suits along the wall. I swallow hard. My eyes flick to Coach Dubois, who's standing beside Miss Marketing with her feet spread shoulder-width apart and her arms folded over her chest. Her expression is unreadable, her gaze fixed on a point above our heads at the center of the back wall. She looks like a statue—a beautiful, angry, French statue.

"My name is Victoria Sharman," the perky blonde continues, gesturing to her chest with a freshly manicured hand. "I'm the Public Relations Director for Huron Mutual."

My eyes slide closed in dread. Huron Mutual, the parent company to the Milwaukee Valkyries and primary financial backbone of the team, sent their PR drone to run this meeting? It's even worse than I thought.

"I know we're all excited for an incredible season," she gushes, her blue eyes twinkling in the glow of the sterile corporate boardroom lights. "I'm sure this is bound to be an excellent year for the Professional Women's Hockey League. Who's ready to cut some ice?"

She says this like she's trying to get the Valkyries to jump up and shout or something, but instead we all just glance at each other in confusion. Cut some ice? Does she think we're about to Zamboni the rink?

There's an awkward pause as her blue eyes flick across the seated athletes, her smile faltering slightly. I see the corner of Coach Dubois' left eye twitch. Good. Coach hates this as much as I do.

"Anyway!" Victoria continues brightly, clapping her hands together. "I'm here to share some news with you lovely ladies. As you know, we're about to kick off the inaugural season for the newest addition to the PWHL, and we couldn't be happier to see the Valkyries show us what they're made of over the next few months."

I narrow my eyes skeptically, waiting for her to just get this over with. I'm already mentally preparing for the phone calls I'll need to make once this goddamn sham of a meeting is over—one to my agent, one to my parents... oh god, my parents.

Victoria's smile fades slightly, and she holds her clasped hands before her in an almost placating posture. "But while we at Huron Mutual are eager to welcome you all to the league with open arms... season ticket sales are not promising."

Here it comes. I feel the bomb hovering over our heads, ready to plummet to the earth and explode around us.

"Typically when we launch a brand-new team, we see pre-season ticket sales at high levels due to the novelty of it all," she explains. "But the trend for the Valkyries, unfortunately, is... lackluster, at best. That means we need to get those sales back up!"

Around me, I feel twenty-three sets of shoulders tense at the words. In the back corner of the room, a dark brown hand goes up. I turn to see Misha, our goalie, glaring daggers at Victoria. "Isn't that your job, marketing lady?"

Around us, the Valkyries mutter their agreement. At the front of the room, Victoria's smile sours slightly. She tries to recover her perfectly poised demeanor, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Please hold questions until the end," she says in an overly sweet voice. "Coach Dubois will address all of your concerns then."

Coach Dubois' left eye twitches again.

"Because we're not seeing the sales we anticipated," Victoria continues, as if following a script in that blonde little head of hers, "Huron Mutual has made some changes to our budget for the year."

"Christ on a cracker," Allie hisses next to me. "You were right."

"These budget changes," Victoria continues chipperly, "are temporary! If ticket sales increase to satisfactory levels, we will regain flexibility to return things to normal."

"And what kinds of 'temporary budget cuts' are we talking here, marketing lady?" another voice behind me chimes in.

Victoria's smile freezes, and it takes a moment for her to steady herself before answering. "Once again, please hold your questions until the end of the meeting, as Coach Dubois will answer them directly. Also, I'd like to remind everyone that I'm the Director of Public Relations, not Marketing."

Grumbling rises around me, and Victoria scans the crowd of irritated hockey players with a frown of disappointment—like we let her down by reacting poorly to her god-awful news. It takes several moments of obvious effort for Victoria to force her lips to reform the approximation of a smile.

"So!" Victoria continues, her buoyant voice now layered with thick agitation. "I want you all to go above and beyond this season. We need to get fans fired up over the Valkyries—we need to make them care about you all and to keep coming back to see you on the ice!"

"And what happens," Misha calls, not even bothering to raise her hand, "if our shining personalities aren't enough to sell the tickets you're supposed to get fans to buy? Does the Marketing budget see any impact from these 'changes,' or is that just limited to our paychecks?"

Victoria's smile drops completely now, and her perfectly manicured hands ball into fists at her sides. "Public. Relations," she says in a clipped, high-pitched voice. "Not Marketing. It's my job to make you look good for the public. And it's your job to follow my advice so your first season in the PWHL isn't also the last season." She aims an overly bright smile in Misha's direction. "So. Make. The people. Care."

With that, Victoria nods once to the Valkyries and once to Coach Dubois before marching her tiny legs back through the boardroom door. Without even looking at the team, the suits manage to unstick themselves from the wall to follow Victoria out of the room.

Allie leans over, her eyes tracking the last corporate schmuck as he disappears through the door. "She does know," she whispers to me, "that our job is to play hockey—right?"