“Thank you,” I say. “You didn’t have to come all the way over. I could have gotten the batteries.”
“We live across the street in 220.” Anton lifts his chin toward the windows, where a luxury condo building is always in view. “Are we going to this meeting, or what?”
“Absolutely.” Fiona claps her hands like the team captain that she is. “We’ll leave in five minutes.” She gets up to gather her practice gear, since the Bombshells have practice after the meeting.
In the silence that follows, Charli and Drake eye each other warily. Anton ignores them both, taking a slow tour around our new living room, stopping in front of the prayer candles I’ve placed on the mantel. “Does this fireplace work?” he asks. “It’s pretty.”
“I doubt it,” I say.
He touches one finger to the blue glass candle holder and then turns around to look at me with those beautiful eyes. “How are you liking Brooklyn so far?”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say a little stupidly. My goodness, he must get a lot of attention from women.
“You’re from Toronto, right?”
“Montreal and then the Toronto suburbs. We left Quebec when I was a little girl. When my father retired. And you?”
“Pennsylvania. But then Colorado, where I played on a minor league team.”
“You ski?” I ask him. Colorado skiing is pretty great.
“Of course!” His eyes dance. “You too? Mont Tremblant? Did I just butcher that pronunciation?”
“Yes.” I try not to laugh.
“Tell me how to say it right.”
“Mont Tremblant. Use your nose.”
He braces his feet on the rug, spreads his arms, and tries again. “MONT… TREMBLANT.”
It’s better this time, but exaggerated, and I hear myself giggle. “We’ll work on it.”
“Awesome.”
At the meeting, I sit down between Fiona and Bryce. When our coach calls Fiona to the front of the room, Anton Bayer slides into her empty seat. I turn my chin to give him a polite smile of acknowledgement.
He gives me a smile so hot that I feel a little flushed as I return my attention to the meeting. Some men just radiate sex appeal, don’t they? I can’t even say why. Something about him just runs hotter than other men.
“Good afternoon!” Rebecca says from the front of the room. “This will be an unusual gathering. I’m well aware how busy you all are. The season will soon be in full swing, and you’ll be off on busses and planes having the season of a lifetime.”
“We all know who’s getting the bus,” Charli whispers from behind me. “And who’s on the jet.”
“So,” Rebecca says, “I wanted to have the rare opportunity to gather here just one time, as two teams with a common goal—to move Brooklyn hockey forward into a new era.”
We all clap. Even Charli, I think.
“Everyone here could be part of a history-making moment in sports. I mean that. I feel it, too.” Rebecca puts a hand to her heart, and every player in the room is completely quiet. She’s short, with a curvy build. She’s one of those tiny dynamo types. My mother would have said, she has unique energy. And everyone present has given her their complete attention.
I’m told that Rebecca used to be the GM’s assistant, before she was ever the girlfriend and then wife of the owner. And well before she owned the team herself. She used to pick up coffee and dry-cleaning for the men who ran this place.
“When I was a little girl,” she says, “I learned that girls take dancing or art classes. I didn’t have any friends who ran track or played hockey. Not one. And I need you all to hear that messaging matters. Everyone in this room heard a different message. Someone gave you the idea that you could be an athlete—maybe your parents or your siblings or a teacher. Even if you had this fire burning inside you from an early age, somewhere, some person showed you what was possible.”
I feel a little teary all of a sudden, thinking of my dad tying my first pair of skates onto my three-year-old feet.
“Everyone in this room has risen to the top of his and her field. That is commendable. But I want to take a moment to illustrate that it means a different thing to be a Bruiser than to be a Bombshell. The salary cap this year for a men’s team is fifty-two million dollars. The salary cap in the women’s league is two hundred and seventy thousand.”
Someone whistles under his breath. And I see Anton wake up his phone beside me. He opens the calculator app and divides two hundred seventy thousand by twenty-three.
I already know the answer, because I worked this equation myself. It’s $11,739. That’s the average salary on my team. It works out to a few hundred dollars a week for the duration of the season.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers under his breath.
“Now, gentlemen. I will never tell you that you don’t deserve your fame and glory. You sweat for every new rung of this crazy ladder that you’ve climbed. Your achievement is not arbitrary. The reward, however, is. Some people in this room make six or seven million dollars a year. And some of them make eleven grand. Because that is how the screwy world we live in values your contributions.”
Rebecca pulls no punches. The room is so silent that I can hear my own heartbeat.
“Who gets to decide, though?” she asks. “It’s so arbitrary. Football, basketball, baseball, and hockey all do well on TV. Soccer is not a money sport in this country, but it is in most other parts of the world. I’m sure my husband could draw us up a multivariable equation that explains where the money comes from, and where it goes.”
I think I just fell a little in love with Rebecca Rowley Kattenberger.
“As much as I’d like to change the bare facts of the pay equality in hockey, I can’t. Not this year, anyway. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make a few changes and contributions.”
She paces at the front. “I’m not allowed to pay my female players amounts exceeding the salary cap. But there are a few benefits we’ve granted to all employees of Brooklyn Hockey LLC. And these benefits accrue to everyone who works here, because that means that it’s not a special stipend for the women. Number one: more amenities in the locker rooms. And healthy smoothies are now always available in the players’ lounge.”
Everyone cheers.
Huh. I guess millionaires like a free smoothie as much as the rest of us normal people.
“Number two: all employees will carry a Kattenberger 5000 phone, provided by our organization.”
Now the women hoot, because we’ve heard about the Katt phone, and we want one.
“And this is my favorite new benefit—every hour you spend on charity work for the Brooklyn Sports Foundation will be compensated at twenty-five dollars per hour. And we’re going to do some great things this year. Georgia and I have some big ideas, and we’re going to share them with you.”
The blond publicist stands up. “That’s right, guys! We’ve done a lot for Brooklyn charities over the past few years. This year we’ve got a new one. Hang on. Let me just…” She points a clicker at the projector, but nothing happens.
“Let’s guess what it is!” one of the men calls. “Save the whales!”