CHAPTER 6
ACE
WE LOST.
Four to two, and honestly? It felt worse than the score suggests. We played like we'd never seen a hockey stick before. Like someone replaced our team with a bunch of dudes who learned the rules five minutes ago from a Wikipedia article.
The locker room is a funeral.
Groover's got his head in his hands. Wall's staring at the ceiling like he's searching for answers from a higher power. Petrov's muttering in Russian—could be prayers, could be curses, could be both. Becker's aggressively untying his skates.
I yank off my helmet and immediately regret it because the smell in here is unholy. Sweat, disappointment, and what I'm pretty sure is Jinx's protein shake that exploded last week and never got fully cleaned up.
"That was fucking embarrassing," Snooze announces to no one in particular.
"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Hammer shoots back. "Really needed that insight."
"I'm just saying—"
"Well, stop saying."
Washington's sitting in the corner, still in full gear, looking like a statue. He takes losses hard. Always has. It's like each goal against us is a personal insult to his entire bloodline.
I'm peeling off my shoulder pads when the locker room door flies open so hard it bounces off the wall.
Coach Martin storms in.
And he looks pissed.
Like, not regular pissed. Nuclear pissed. The kind of pissed that makes you wonder if you're about to get benched for the rest of your natural life.
The team goes silent.
Coach never gets angry after a loss. Disappointed? Sure. Frustrated? Maybe. But angry? That's reserved for when we do something monumentally stupid, like the time Becker tried to fight three guys at once, or when Jinx forgot we had a game and showed up an hour late smelling like a distillery.
We played like shit tonight, yeah, but not that kind of shit.
Coach paces back and forth, jaw clenched so tight I'm worried about his dental work.
Nobody moves. We've all collectively decided that breathing too loud might set him off.
Finally, Groover—brave, stupid Groover—clears his throat. "Coach? What happened?"
Coach stops pacing and turns to face us.
"Management," he says through his teeth, and the single word sounds like he's chewing glass, "are a bunch of spineless assholes."
Okay, what the fuck?
Coach doesn't swear. Like, ever. He says things like "darn" and "shoot" and once, memorably, "oh fiddlesticks" when Petrov accidentally broke his clipboard.
The room's energy shifts from funeral to, "did we just enter an alternate dimension?"
"They won't approve the charity game," Coach continues, and each word sounds like it's causing him physical pain.
"Said the team has enough commitments as it is.
Said we need to focus on our season performance.
" He makes air quotes so aggressive I'm worried he'll dislocate something.
"Said it's not a good use of team resources. "
The locker room is so quiet I can hear Groover's breathing three benches over.
"So that's it?" Wall asks, voice flat. "We're just... giving up?"
Something hot and sharp twists in my chest. Devon's face flashes through my mind—the way he looked when Mama Paws explained about the shelter closing. The immediate, fierce determination. The refusal to accept defeat.
We can't just quit.
"What do we do now?" someone asks, and I can't tell who because my ears are ringing with frustrated rage.
Coach's expression shifts. His jaw unclenches slightly, and something that might be a smile—or might be a stroke, honestly hard to tell—crosses his face.
"Fuck them," he finally says.
The locker room erupts.
"COACH SAID FUCK!"
"I heard it!"
"Someone's been body-snatched!"
"Who are you and what did you do with Coach Martin?"
Coach holds up a hand, and we shut up immediately because even when he's swearing, he's still Coach.
"We'll do it in our spare time," he says, calm now, decided. "We don't need their permission. This is about something bigger than corporate approval and PR optics. This is about doing the right thing."
For a moment, nobody reacts.
Then Becker stands up. "Pucks for Paws!"
"PUCKS FOR PAWS!" Petrov echoes, jumping to his feet.
And suddenly everyone's chanting it, fists pumping, the energy in the room flipping from despair to righteous fury in approximately three seconds.
I'm chanting too, caught up in it, feeling that hot sharp thing in my chest transform into something that might be hope.
But then my brain catches up to my enthusiasm, and I hold up a hand.
The chanting dies down.
"Guys," I say, hating that I'm about to be the voice of reason. "If it's not an official game… We're not going to find another team willing to play us. Especially on short notice, right before Christmas."
The energy deflates slightly. Shit.
Groover frowns, thinking. "What if we don't play against another team? What if we do mixed teams? Like, half pros, half civilians. Make it more of an exhibition thing."
Becker's face lights up with that expression he gets when he's about to suggest something either brilliant or catastrophically stupid. There's no in-between with him.
"Say less," he announces, already pulling out his phone and heading for the door.
"Where are you going?" Washington calls after him.
"To make some calls!" Becker yells back, door already swinging shut behind him.
We all exchange glances.
"Should we be worried?" Wall asks.
"Probably," I say.
"Definitely," Groover corrects.
***
AN HOUR LATER, we're on the team bus, headed back to Chicago.
Everyone's sprawled across seats in various states of exhaustion. Some guys are sleeping. Petrov's watching something on his phone with headphones in, occasionally laughing at what I'm assuming is a YouTube video about bears or vodka.
I'm staring out the window at the dark highway, wondering if it's too late to fake my own death and move to Canada, when my phone buzzes.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: yo! how'd the tailor thing work out?
Oh, right. Reddit guy. The one who saved me from a hat-induced panic attack.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Good! Your roommate's mom is a miracle worker. Saved my ass.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: your ass needed saving? do tell
Need_Tailor_Chicago: It was a work thing. Last minute crisis.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: mmm i love a man in crisis mode
OnlyNewRadicals_69: something about the desperation is hot
Umm…
I read it again. Then a third time, like maybe I'm hallucinating.
Nope. Still says hot.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Are you trying to flirt with me?
OnlyNewRadicals_69: duhh
OnlyNewRadicals_69: you stoned or something?
I laugh, and Wall glances over from across the aisle.
I wave him off.
He goes back to his phone, unconvinced.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: follow-up question: are you hot?
I choke on nothing. Actually just inhale wrong and start coughing.
Wall's staring now. "You good?"
I give him a thumbs up while my esophagus stages a revolt.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: That's a weird question.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: it's market research
Need_Tailor_Chicago: I'm straight.
There. Done. Boundaries established.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: got it
OnlyNewRadicals_69: so anyway. you hot?
I stare at my phone like it just grew teeth.
Does he think straight means something else? Is this some kind of test?
Need_Tailor_Chicago: I'm not answering that.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: so you ARE hot. got it.
This guy is unbelievable.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Did you miss the part where I said I'm straight?
OnlyNewRadicals_69: nope. heard you loud and clear. just chose to ignore it
I'm laughing again. I can't help it. The audacity.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: You're ridiculous.
*nlyNewRadicals_69: thank you ??
Okay. Should I be weirded out? What if he's a stalker or something?
OnlyNewRadicals_69: guess i'll have to keep throwing myself at unavailable straight guys like the disaster i am
Okay, now I feel bad.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: That's harsh.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: self-awareness is sexy
OnlyNewRadicals_69: also it's true. i'm a walking catastrophe. last week i locked myself in a bathroom
Need_Tailor_Chicago: How do you lock yourself IN a bathroom?
OnlyNewRadicals_69: talent. dedication. poor life choices
OnlyNewRadicals_69: anyway someone had to rescue me. it was humiliating. i'm still processing the trauma
I'm grinning now, the loss feeling about a thousand miles away.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Sounds rough.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: the WORST part? the guy who rescued me was mad hot
OnlyNewRadicals_69: like, offensively attractive
OnlyNewRadicals_69: and of course i was at my most pathetic
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Did you get his number?
Why did I ask that?
OnlyNewRadicals_69: lmaooo no
OnlyNewRadicals_69: he's straight. it's my curse
OnlyNewRadicals_69: the hot ones are ALWAYS straight
OnlyNewRadicals_69: it's homophobic, honestly
I snort-laugh, and this time Wall doesn't even look over. He's given up on me.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: That does seem unfair.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: RIGHT?
OnlyNewRadicals_69: anyway i should let you go. i'm sure you have important straight guy things to do
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Like what?
OnlyNewRadicals_69: idk. watch football? scratch your balls? deny your feelings?
I laugh harder than that joke deserves.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: I don't deny my feelings.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: sure jan
OnlyNewRadicals_69: ok for real tho, glad the tailor worked out! and if you change your mind about telling me if you're hot or not, hit me up
Need_Tailor_Chicago: I'll keep that in mind.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: ??
"Ace." I turn to where Wall's voice comes from across the aisle. "We just lost a game. At least try to act appropriately."