Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 89(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 89(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
“You’re a ballbuster,” he says as he circles around me, that index finger clicking away. “You’re a boss bitch. You take no prisoners.”
I grin as I tilt my head and switch poses.
This is my first photoshoot and I’m feeling pretty awkward. How do people do this for a living? I’d die.
“Yes,” he says as he unscrews the lens and puts a smaller one on. “Stand by the window and look out at the city. It’s yours. Every block, every person, yours for the taking.”
Geez, where did they get this guy?
I do as he says and stand at the window, looking out of my office at the city spreading out into the distance.
It reminds me of when I was a little girl and stuck in here for hours on end when my father was running the place. I’d stare out the window, making up stories in my head about where all the people were going as my father chewed out the equipment manager or got one of his unruly players in line.
He wanted me there for all of it. Even when I was seven years old, he knew I’d be here one day, taking over the family business. He knew I’d be in charge when he passed and he wanted me to be ready.
I turn to the camera and grin. I am ready. I’m fucking kicking ass.
“Sensational,” the cameraman says as he takes a few more shots and then lowers the camera.
He cycles through the photos on the tiny screen and then whistles low. “Looks like the cover to me,” he says, showing me a picture where I’m staring down the camera, arms crossed. I look powerful in it. I look in control.
My heart starts beating a little harder knowing my face will be the new face of the Cincinnati Vipers.
It’s okay. I’m ready for this.
The truth is, I’ve been in control for the past four years, ever since I turned thirty. That was when my dad got diagnosed with cancer. That’s when he started to move away from the business. He kept himself as the face of the organization while I stayed in the background, doing all the work and making all the decisions.
He died two months ago, and now I’m the face.
This article and cover shoot for Sports Animated Magazine is my coming out party. It’s where I publicly take over as owner of the Cincinnati Vipers.
“I’m all done,” the cameraman says as he starts packing up his lights. “Marsha will take over for the interview portion.”
Marsha walks into my office with a big friendly smile on her face. My assistant Rachel gets us some coffee before leaving us alone.
“What’s it like not only being the sole female owner of a hockey franchise, but being the youngest one as well at only thirty-four years old?” Marsha asks.
I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. “Exciting.”
“Exciting?”
“I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life.”
“Some people say you’re not ready to lead a national sports team.”
“Who are these people?” I ask, staring her down. “Online trolls living in their parents’ basement?”
“Well, for starters, Martin Greyson, owner of the Denver Landslides. He said that you don’t have what it takes to lead an organization.”
That prick. I’ll be sure to tear him a new one at the next owners’ meeting.
“I’ll remind Mr. Greyson that my team beat his the last four times we played each other,” I say with a grin. “Maybe he should worry about his own faltering organization.”
Let him suck on that.
“How did your father prepare you to take over?”
I get a little watery eyed at the memory of my father bringing me to hockey games, both local and professional. He’d always save me a seat beside him, no matter who he was with. He would explain everything to me. Not just about the game, but how he thought. How he worked through problems. I learned so much from him and the wound from his death is still fresh.
I swallow the lump in my throat and fight back my tears with a deep breath.
“My father was an amazing man,” I tell her. “A master of detail. Nothing was overlooked. He taught me everything he knew from the proper temperature of the ice surface—twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit by the way—to the different curves of a hockey stick for each style of play, to how to fire a coach, and most importantly, how to get the best out of your players.”
“How do you get the best out of your players?” she says, looking at me curiously. “Do the young men in the locker room respect a thirty-four-year-old woman telling them the best way to play hockey?”
“The smart ones do,” I say. “Hockey runs in my blood.”
“Some say it’s a man’s sport.”
“I lead by example,” I tell her. “Maybe I can’t hit a slapshot from mid-ice, but I bring a level of tenacity, determination, and detail-oriented execution that speaks for itself.”