“Be yourself,” he says simply as we walk side by side to the team meeting room. It’s a stadium-style room that the team meets in, usually to watch game film, but sometimes for relaying of information as a group.

“Be myself?” I ask skeptically. “That’s all the great Brian Brannon has to say to me?”

“Yes…be yourself. Don’t go in that room and for one minute try to mold yourself to their expectations. I didn’t offer you this position to do the same exact job I did. I gave it to you because I want you to be better at it than I was, and you’re going to be because of who you are, not who they want you to be.”

I tuck an arm through my father’s, feeling the strength he exudes at the ripe age of fifty-eight. I can’t help the smile on my face as I lean toward him and give a squeeze. “It’s amazing I didn’t become a narcissistic, self-centered asshole with as much pumping up of my esteem that you do on a daily basis.”

Dad snickers. “As if you could ever be anything that was less than perfect.”

We turn right at the end of the hall and the door to the meeting room comes into focus. But for the slight flutter in my belly, there’s nothing internal to indicate how momentous this occasion is.

To me.

To the league.

To this team.

At just thirty-one years old, I’m getting ready to be named as one of the youngest general managers in the league. As a woman, someone like me among these ranks is unheard of, and I’m not going to be given a free pass just because I’m Brian Brannon’s daughter. While I think my father is about the closest thing to God as you can get, there are many out there who will think he’s gone off his rocker by stepping down and appointing me as GM.

Many will think he’s showing favoritism to a family member.

Some will think he just doesn’t care about this team anymore.

Perhaps a few will even think he’s just lazy and doesn’t want the headaches that come with being a president and CEO of a professional sports team, as well as the general manager.

They’d all be wrong, though, and I sincerely hope they believe him today. If not, fuck it. I have a job to do and skeptics, chauvinists, purists, and otherwise backward-thinking assholes aren’t going to stop me from achieving my goals.

To turn this team into champions.

There’s a rustling of bodies in their seats as we walk in. I follow my dad to the podium, giving a smile and nod of my head to Coach Pretore sitting on the end in the first row. I think I have him won over, but I can’t be sure until I actually get in and get my hands dirty.

My father has never been one for pomp, sugar coating, or long segues. He cuts right to the chase. “I know you all have seen the news stories and I hate that it was leaked before I could talk to you. As of today, I have officially stepped down as the acting general manager of the Cold Fury.”

No one utters a word. Not a sound is made. This tells me that indeed, everyone has already heard the news.

“I’m appointing my daughter, Gray Brannon, in my place.”

And there it is…a distinct rustling sound as bodies shift in their seats. My father continues on, making firm and clear statements about my qualifications.

Graduated Princeton when I was nineteen.

Got my MBA from Kellogg at twenty-one.

Ph.D. in statistics from Berkeley at twenty-four.

Genius level IQ of 142.

Okay, Dad…that’s a little much. Get to the good stuff.

As I half listen to my father talk with pride about my two Olympic medals while playing for the U.S. women’s ice hockey team—one silver, one gold—I let my eyes roam over the group. The two front rows are composed of the coaching, equipment, and training staff. The players sit in clique-type groups based on what lines they play on. This isn’t by design, but I’m betting more because they have a unique bond and camaraderie. They almost have a sixth sense that enables them to read each other while on the ice.

My eyes pass over Ryker Evans, our team’s goalie, and then snap right back to him. He’s not watching my father but rather me, and I find myself unwillingly sucked into those silver-gray eyes. It happens every time I look at him, whether it’s in person or he’s giving an interview on TV, which is again proof that I am indeed a woman.

His lips tip up in acknowledgment of me and his eyes radiate congratulations. He gives me a nod of approval and then slides his gaze to my father, who is now lauding my scouting efforts for the Cold Fury. I’ve been the senior scout for the past two years and have scored some great players for the team.

I don’t immediately move my own gaze on, but rather take an unfettered moment to appreciate Ryker’s bold handsomeness. He’s called the Brick Wall in this league because he’s big. I mean really big for a goalie, but he’s still one of the most agile net minders I’ve ever seen. And still speaking as a woman for just a second, he has the face of a GQ cover model. In fact, I think he’s actually graced their cover twice if memory serves me. Dark hair, liquid silver eyes, and a beard of what looks like no more than three days’ growth that never gets shorter or longer, even during the playoffs. I’m quite sure when he’s ready to retire he could have a second career as a model if he was so inclined.

As it stands, however, I am far more interested in Ryker Evans for his athletic abilities than his face and I consider him to be one of my greatest acquisitions as a scout. I thought that even when our playoff hopes were crushed during Ryker’s first game in a Cold Fury jersey when he failed to stop a penalty shot, securing for us a big fat loss. I thought he was still a fantastic prospect even when the organization’s CFO, Bill Bowman, berated me in a staff meeting for insisting on such a pricey acquisition to the team.