Breaking the Ice Read online

  “ You’re the best,” she says as she takes the chocolate bar from him.

  “And don’t you forget it.” He takes the piece she offers him. “They’re going to draft you, and you’re going to tear up this fucking League.”

  Chapter Two

  THE BREAKFAST ROOM is half-full of sleepy athletes clutching mugs of coffee when Sophie takes a plate and goes through the buffet line. There were cameras who watched her work out this morning in the hotel’s small fitness center, and there are even more here now, watching as she puts together a balanced plate: a premade omelet, two sausage patties, two pieces of toast with peanut butter, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a plain yogurt.

  “Yo, Sophie!” Travis Mollett, one of her Chilton teammates, stands up and waves his arms above his head to catch her attention. He was one of her wingers, and he’s sitting with Shawn Wedin, a defenseman, and the only other Chilton player at this year’s draft.

  The last time she saw them both, their hair was peroxide blond for their Werner Cup run. She refused to go completely blonde, dip dyeing the tip of her ponytail instead, another inch for each round of the playoffs they reached. She’s long since cut her hair, and they’re both back to their natural colors, but she still sees them and thinks team and winning .

  “Big day today,” she says as she joins them at their table. Neither of them was drafted yesterday, but it would’ve been a surprise if they had. They’re both solid players, but not the kind who would go in the top three rounds.

  They aren’t franchise players the way Sophie’s supposed to be. She’s been tasked with the same thing on every team she’s played for: lead them to a championship. She’s never resented the responsibility or buckled under the expectations. Concord, an expansion team that hasn’t even made the playoffs in their sixteen-year history, is desperate for a difference maker.

  She’ll be that difference maker; they just have to draft her.

  “Yeah,” Travis says. He has a mound of eggs on one plate and an even bigger pile of bacon on a second. His gaze darts about the room, and his narrow shoulders are pulled up close to his ears.

  “You’re a good player. Plenty of teams will see.”

  “Thanks, Cap.”

  “I’m not your captain anymore.” She was for three years, and he was even one of her alternates their senior year. “But I will be the one clapping the loudest when they call your name.”

  “Louder than my mom?” He laughs. “You always have to be the best at everything.”

  If you’re not the best, then you don’t get to play.

  Travis misses the way her smile slips. He takes a big gulp of his orange juice. “I can’t believe you’re with us this morning.” He winces as soon as his brain catches up to his mouth. “I’m sorry. That was—”

  Sophie waves off his apology. “I get it.” She didn’t expect to be with them this morning either, but she can’t say that. She can’t come off as cocky or ungrateful. As the first woman in the draft she has to be gracious, approachable, and apparently stand silently as she’s undervalued. One day, there will be enough women in the NAHL that we can speak out. We’ll have a firecracker of a forward and a hard-hitting defensewoman . That isn’t Sophie’s role. Being the first means she clears the path for those who follow behind her. They can push the envelope in ways she can’t.

  “At least you have the NAWHL if you aren’t drafted,” Shawn says. “It must be nice to have a backup plan.”

  Sophie dips her cantaloupe in her yogurt and chews slowly so she doesn’t have to talk. The North American Women’s Hockey League isn’t a backup. It’s a professional league in its own right, but she’s decided if she can’t be the first woman in the NAHL, then she’ll play overseas. Ever since last year’s lockout when she realized there might not be a NAHL to be drafted into, let alone that one would accept her, she told her agent to put out feelers to the European leagues. Most of them have been co-ed for years. The Swedish Hockey League is her first choice if she can’t play here.

  She doesn’t say that. Instead she tells Shawn, “You’ll be drafted.”

  She talks up the strengths of his game and it almost feels like they’re in the locker room before a championship game. That’s when she’d go stall to stall, giving her teammates what they needed. For some it was a clasp to the shoulder or a friendly facewash. Others needed to hear the game plan one last time. Shawn always needed a reminder that he deserved to be on the ice with them.

  It’s a role she embraced, but sometimes she wishes there was someone to give her a pep talk.

  “I think TNSN is creeping on us,” Travis says. “Do you want to give them a show?”

  Before Sophie can say, “Absolutely not,” Travis shoves four strips of bacon into his mouth and chews so obnoxiously not a single camera lingers on their table. Sophie can’t help her laugh. She covers her mouth, but it’s obvious the way her shoulders shake.

  Travis grins, spraying bits of bacon everywhere, and gives her a thumbs-up.

  SOPHIE SITS BETWEEN her mom and dad again, last night’s panic behind her. Concord has five picks left in the draft. She’ll be one of them.

  None of their picks are in the fourth round, but Milwaukee picks up Travis and Edmonton selects Shawn, and Sophie’s happy for them both even if she can’t shut down the voice that says I should’ve gone before them .

  The fifth round passes without her name being called.

  Then the sixth.

  There’s still time. Concord has two picks in the seventh round. They’ll choose me. They have to.

  Concord opens the seventh round of the draft by selecting Karl Ekberg.

  They only have one pick left.

  She takes a deep breath and folds her hands in her lap so she can squeeze her fingers.

  The two hundred and twentieth selection is made.

  Then the two hundred and twenty-first.

  Two twenty-two.

  Two twenty-three.

  There’s one pick left.

  Martin Pauling steps up the podium and taps the mic once then a second time, even though the microphone has worked all afternoon. Anticipation prickles at the back of her neck.

  “For the final selection of the 2011 Draft, the Concord Condors select, from Chilton Academy, Sophie Fournier.”

  She doesn’t react at first, too focused on keeping her expression neutral. It isn’t until her dad nudges her that she realizes her name was called. She’s been drafted . She stands, her family standing with her, and hugs her dad first.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs, holding him tight. He claps her shoulder, a familiar good game gesture.

  She hugs her mom next, then her brother.

  “Fucking finally,” Colby mutters, and she laughs as she makes her way to the aisle so she can walk down to the stage.

  Her heart beats a desperate, erratic rhythm. Her blood thrums and her thoughts are a litany of I did it and it happened and holy shit . She doesn’t let any of it show on her face.

  When she reaches the stage, Martin Pauling hands her a red jersey with black and white accents. There’s a condor, its wings spread wide, on the front. Her name, FOURNIER, is stamped across the back. Even bigger are the numbers beneath it, 93.

  She pulls the jersey over her head then takes pictures with the management team. First woman drafted into the NAHL. In a few months, she’ll be wearing this jersey in games . Maybe it’ll be enough to tempt her mémé ’s loyalty away from Montreal. She can compete for the Maple Cup . Maybe one day she’ll even lift it.

  She forgets about her media training and her carefully constructed persona. She beams for the pictures, then lights up even more when her family joins them for another round of pictures. She hugs her brother again and lets her mom thumb away the few tears leaking out.

  It’s the draft. She’s allowed to be emotional.

  Once the cameras retreat, Mr. Pauling says, “Sophie, could you come with us? We have some things to discuss.”

  She leaves her family behind as she follows
the cluster of men who hold her hockey future in their hands. She’s intimidated and a little angry but mostly still struggling to process that come fall she’ll be a NAHL player. One day, there might be a little girl on the carpet in her grandparents’ living room who watches Sophie play the same way she grew up watching Bobby Brindle and Gabriel Ducasse. And she’ll think if she can do it then I can do it .

  Mr. Pauling opens the door to Room 423 and gestures for Sophie to enter first. She steps through and hooks her fingers through her pockets so she doesn’t fidget. Why did you pick me so low? she wants to demand. Did you pick me for the publicity or will you let me play? All I need is one game, and I’ll prove to you why I deserve more.

  Room 423 is a suite. The living room has a large TV mounted on one wall and a weird hotel picture on the other. It’s some kind of landscape, which she supposes is better than the pastel flowers they usually go with. She hovers by one of the couches as the men file in.

  She recognizes some of them. Mr. Pauling, obviously. Ronald Wilcox, an older man who is only just beginning to go gray, the general manager of the Condors, is here. So is Coach Butler, a severe looking man who has served as the Condors’ coach for the past three seasons. A couple of the assistant coaches are here as well.

  It’s a lot of fanfare for the two hundred and twenty-fourth pick of the draft. Hope stirs in her chest. Maybe Carol Rogers was onto something. Maybe it’s simply a business decision. It still stings.

  She locks down all her feelings and offers the men in the room a polite smile. She won’t give them any reason to send her to Manchester, the minor league team. She’s here to play for Concord and make an impact right away.

  A knock at the door interrupts the building silence. At Mr. Pauling’s nod, Coach Butler opens the door.

  A woman in a smart business suit strides in. Her black hair is twisted into a high bun, showing off her Condors earrings. She tucks her phone into her suit pocket and glances around the room, the smallest of frowns furrowing her brow. “I hope you didn’t start without me.” Before anyone can say anything, she holds a hand out to Sophie. “Mary Beth Doyle. I’m the Condors’ PR manager.”

  “Sophie Fournier.” She shakes her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Mr. Pauling takes over the introductions. Sophie attaches names and importance to each man, but before they can finish, Mr. Wilcox interrupts. “We don’t have a lot of time before the press conference, and there are things we need to cover.”

  “The press conference should be happening now,” Ms. Doyle says. “It looks like we’re prepping her.”

  “Because we are prepping her. We need to talk about the draft and living arrangements. Everything else can be ‘no comment’ until we have more time.”

  Ms. Doyle makes an irritated sound in the back of her throat but doesn’t say anything. Sophie’s gaze flits from person to person. She wonders who she’s supposed to take her cues from.

  “Ronnie and his wife have offered to let you stay with them this year,” Mr. Pauling tells Sophie. “Most players live with an older teammate or sometimes the rookies will rent an apartment together, but we think, given your situation, neither of those would be a good option.”

  “I understand.” Sophie always had her own hotel rooms when she traveled with Chilton. She had teammates who resented it because they were two, sometimes even three or four to a room and she had a room, and a bed, all to herself. It figures that the NAHL would be more of the same even if she doesn’t want to stand out more than she already does.

  Of course… “If I make the team,” she’s compelled to add.

  “What?”

  Everyone’s looking at her, and she pulls her hands out of her pockets and stands tall. “During training camp and preseason, I should stay in a hotel like the other players. The optics wouldn’t be good if I stayed with Mr. Wilcox right away.” She glances at Ms. Doyle for backup.

  “She’s right. We don’t want it to look like preseason is a formality. We can say there are plans in place for if Sophie makes the team, but they shouldn’t be implemented until it happens.”

  “Everyone knows she’ll make the team,” Coach Vorgen, one of the assistant coaches, says.

  Sophie shoves down her bubble of relief. Out loud, she says, “I was drafted last. That means something.”

  “We know you were the best player in the draft,” Mr. Pauling tells her. “Just like we knew no one else could touch you.”

  So, it was a business decision. Concord picked her last because they could. She should be glad her new team was able to get two first round prospects with only one first round pick, because it will make them a better team. She isn’t, though. She should’ve gone before Hayes. She should’ve gone second overall.

  A tiny seed of resentment settles deep inside her chest. If left unchecked, she’ll grow bitter and unhappy until she hates her team. Since she wants a long career in the NAHL, she can’t let that happen. She takes a deep breath, then slowly releases it.

  She’ll be Rookie of the Year and win the Clayton Trophy and prove to the entire League and her management she’s the best. Game in and game out, she’ll do what she excels at, playing hockey.

  “I should take over the prep for the press conference,” Ms. Doyle says.

  “Of course,” Mr. Pauling says. “Welcome to the Condors, Sophie. You’ll be a star for this organization.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ms. Doyle leads Sophie to a simpler hotel room. This one, like Sophie’s, isn’t a suite. There’s only two rooms: the bedroom with a king-size bed, and a small bathroom.

  “We don’t have much time, but you can sit if you like,” Ms. Doyle says. “Relax, save some of your posture for later. If you’re comfortable with it, I’d like you to call me Mary Beth.” She offers Sophie a warm smile as she sits in the desk chair. “I’m here to help you manage the pressure and attention you’ll receive for being the first woman in the NAHL.”

  Sophie takes a seat in the armchair.

  “Let’s start, then. Why is playing in the NAHL important to you?”

  Sophie doesn’t roll her eyes but it’s a near thing. She takes a deep breath, but Mary Beth shakes her head. “Not that answer. The real one.”

  Sophie hesitates.

  “There can’t be any lies between us. We have to trust each other. We might get…creative with the answers we give outside these conversations, but when it’s only the two of us then I want to know what you’re thinking.”

  She’s only known this woman for five minutes. She isn’t willing to promise the truth all the time, but this is an easy answer to give. “I want to wake up every morning and be paid to do what I love. I want hockey to be my job and what I do for fun and in my downtime.”

  The NAWHL was never more than a brief consideration for her, because while the league is gaining traction, most players still have to hold down at least a part-time job in order to play. Some people suggested she put her skill and talent toward growing the women’s game, but she won’t for the same reason she never thought seriously about college. She won’t split her attention between hockey and school, and she won’t split it between hockey and work either.

  “I love hockey,” Sophie finishes. She flushes because she knows it sounds stupid and young, but Mary Beth asked for the truth.

  “I want you to remember that. There will be a lot of highs and a lot of lows this season. As prepared as you are, there will be days where you feel like it’s more than you can handle. On those days, remember why you play.”

  Sophie nods.

  “All right. Now, let’s do a bit of prep before I throw you to your first NAHL press conference.”

  SOPHIE WEARS HER Condors jersey and a Condors baseball cap to her presser. She can feel her nameplate against her shoulders, stiff because it’s a new jersey, but it’s a reminder of where she is and what she’s done today. And even if they didn’t do it right away, Concord did pick her. She has an entire hockey future ahead of her and nothing anyone can
say will bring her down.

  She sits behind a table with a name card in case anyone here doesn’t know who she is. She folds her hands on the table so everyone can see she doesn’t fidget. This is like press conferences back at Chilton except there are more cameras and this is being broadcast to all the United States and Canada. But no big deal, right?

  “How do you feel about being drafted last?” Carol Rogers asks. “Do you think you should’ve gone higher?”

  Wasted question, Sophie thinks. You and I both know you won’t get a good answer. “I’m honored the Concord Condors chose me to be a part of their organization. There are a lot of athletes who work hard and aren’t selected.”

  A man from The Denver Post asks the next question. “Is this a publicity stunt? If you were selected last, then what chance do you have at making the team?”

  “Being drafted means I have an opportunity to show Concord what I can do for their team. I have the rest of the summer to practice and improve so when training camp comes, I can showcase my best skills.”

  “What do you say to the rumors Concord took advantage of the system to get you?” a reporter from TNSN asks.

  I bet more teams will apply to be co-ed now. “I don’t listen to rumors but as a member of the Condors organization, I want Concord to be the best team it can be. I think they made steps toward that today.”

  “Because they gamed the system,” the reporter presses. “There was no competition to force them to draft you high.”

  Next year it will be different. Women will be drafted higher, the way they deserve. “This isn’t my area of expertise.”

  A man from The Concord Courier stands up. His suit is too big in the shoulders as if he bought it a size too large, expecting to grow into it. He pulls a pad of paper out of his pocket and studies it before clearing his throat. “Concord drafted your high school rival Michael Hayes second overall. Do you think you’ll play together? Rivals to linemates?”

  Concord drafted him ahead of me, and I’m sure it went straight to his head. Four years of showing him I was better and now he has the draft to hang over me. But if, at the end of the year, anyone thinks he’s the better player, then I didn’t do my job.