“Oh, the Lotus!” Lena Nilsson gushes. “That’s where I’ve been going now that we’re back in the city. The instructors are wonderful.”
“How long are you in town for?” I ask Lena.
“Until Theo has to report for training camp. I wish we could stay forever. I’m never excited about going back to Edmonton.” Lena’s bottom lip sticks out. “It’s a very cold place.”
The ladies keep chatting, and I have absolutely nothing to contribute to the conversation. I stare longingly at Jake, who’s involved in an animated discussion with Nils. He must sense my gaze on him, because suddenly he glances over. I see understanding dawn in his eyes. Then he says something to Nils before waving to me. “Babe, come here and tell them your conspiracy theory about Kowski and the refs.”
“Excuse me.” I gratefully hop to my feet and hope that Lindsay and the others aren’t offended by my obvious eagerness to escape their company.
Ed Mulder doesn’t look thrilled by my arrival, but Nils greets me warmly. “Conspiracy, eh? To be honest, I’m starting to wonder the same thing.”
“There’s no other explanation,” I answer. “Did you see the clip from yesterday? The ref was clearly watching that play and decided not to call a foul. And honestly, every time they discount an infraction, it’s such a disservice to Kowski. He’s fast, but he can’t showcase his speed because he’s constantly being knocked around without any repercussion to the guys doing the knocking.”
“I agree,” Nils says, shaking his head incredulously. “It’s downright bizarre. The ref—was it McEwen? I think it was Vic McEwen—he had a perfect line of sight to Kowski and the Kings winger who cross-checked him.”
Mulder sounds annoyed as he joins in. “Kowski initiated contact.”
“It was typical puck protection on his end,” I counter. “Meanwhile, the resulting check could have resulted in a serious head injury.”
“But it didn’t,” Mulder says, rolling his eyes at me. “Besides, injuries come with the job, right, Nils?”
I stifle my annoyance.
Nils responds with a shrug. “For the most part, yes. But I agree with Brenna about Kowski. There’s a difference between normal contact and the kind of contact that can give you brain damage.” He gives Jake a wry smile. “Still want to come play with us next season knowing a ref might allow you to get murdered?”
“Absolutely.” No hesitation from Jake, though he follows it up with a rare display of humility. “I just hope I don’t disappoint you guys.”
“You’re going to kill it,” I say firmly, because I truly believe he will. “I bet you you’ll be the youngest player ever to win the Art Ross.” That’s the trophy for the most points in a season, previously won by legends like Gretzky and Crosby.
“Babe. That’s a lot of pressure,” Jake grumbles. “I’d be happy if I got an assist or two.” Then he smirks, displaying the familiar Connelly confidence. “Or a Stanley Cup.”
Nils raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“You guys are definitely due,” I tell them. “The Oilers haven’t won a cup since, what, the 1989 season? Not since the Gretzky era.”
Nils nods in confirmation. “You know your hockey.”
“We went to the finals in ’06,” Jake points out. He pauses. “Lost, though.”
And what followed was an eleven-year playoffs drought, which is embarrassing when you consider that more than half the teams in the league make it to the playoffs. I don’t mention that particular statistic, however. I wouldn’t dream it, not in front of an Oilers superfan, an Oilers active-roster player, and a soon-to-be Oilers rookie.
Speaking of the superfan, I feel Mulder’s gaze on me, and I turn to find him wearing a shit-eating grin. My first thought is that he’s impressed.
But I should know better by now.
“Sorry, it’s just funny sometimes.” Chuckling, he swirls the ice cubes in his glass. “You know, hearings hockey stats and breakdowns coming from a woman. It’s cute.”
It’s cute?
A red mist washes over my vision. Attitudes like that are the reason why women still face massive roadblocks when trying to break into sports journalism. It’s a historically sexist profession, and even now there really aren’t that many established female sports journalists. It’s not for lack of talent—it’s because of men like this, who think vaginas don’t belong in sports.
“Stats knowledge is one of the many talents Brenna brings to the table,” Jake says roughly.
Ed Mulder completely misconstrues that. I know Jake wasn’t trying to be sleazy, considering he went out of his way to include me in the hockey talk. But Mulder’s brain operates on a different level.
“I bet she does,” he drawls. He leers at my chest for several fist-inducing seconds before winking and clapping Jake on the shoulder.
Jake stiffens.
I grit my teeth, pressing my balled fists to my sides. This man is such a pig. I want nothing more than to smack him across the face and tell him to shove his internship up his ass.