Puck Me It’s Christmas! (Maplewood Falls #2)

Chapter 1 Ellie

ELLIE

“Did you just ask me what my favorite sex position is?”

“No!” I shriek at the huge hockey player cornered in front of me. “That’s not even close to what I asked you.” I wave my phone that’s recording in his face. “I asked, ‘If you were a Christmas cookie, what type would you be?’”

“What kind of stupid question is that? No one on the internet wants to watch a video of brain-dead idiots answering questions posed by another brain-dead nepo baby idiot.”

“I’m not a nepo baby.” I glower up at him.

“Candy Cane, your father works for the NHL, and this is an NHL team, so, you know, nepotism.” He smirks. “Or you’re sleeping with someone.” He hefts his stick and brushes past me, his massive six-four frame magnified by the pads and heavy hockey skates.

One of the forwards sees me with my phone out, and his eyes widen. He curses and practically sprints for the rink, almost crashes into the plexiglass divider, and then he’s gone, racing away over the ice.

“Why doesn’t anyone want to participate in my PR videos?” I demand.

The rest of the players have already bailed for the ice, starting their morning workout.

“It’s part of your contract!” I yell at them as Fletcher Sullivan walks by, thin blades of his skates thudding on the rubber flooring, then silently glides out onto the ice.

He spins on his outside edge to toss one more acidic comment at me. “You should just take videos of the players naked in the locker room. Know your audience, Candy Cane,” he shouts to me, effortlessly skating backward. “See? I can do your job and mine.”

“You’re called up from the minors, buddy. You don’t have an NHL contract. They can and will send you back down any day now, especially if the team keeps losing games,” I shout back.

He gives me the finger.

“Loser.” I plunk down on the bleachers of the Rhode Islanders’ brand-new stadium to get some footage of the guys on the ice.

I only have one player who actually answered the question, and the guy spoke excitedly in Finnish the entire time while gesturing to a picture of a raccoon on his phone.

The rest of them ran, gave me deer-in-the-headlights looks, rolled their eyes, mumbled “I dunno” around their mouthguards, or like Fletcher, complained—loudly and bitterly.

I cannot afford to lose this job. Fletcher is right. The only reason I have it is because of my dad. I should be at the Sunshine House Daycare leading story time right now, prepping organic snacks, or ushering my tiny young charges on a fun educational field trip.

Thanks to the Apache helicopter moms of Maplewood Falls, I lost my job, was blacklisted from all the preschools in the town, and now I have to chase after man-babies to try to drum up some sort of interest for hockey’s newest and worst-performing team in the history of the NHL.

“It’s not my fault,” I whisper as I videotape the guys on the ice.

The Rhode Island Hockey Club has only been an NHL team since October. And here it is—the Thanksgiving turkey carcass is still warm—they have not won a single game. Zero. Zilch.

And it hasn’t even been close.

I coach U6 girls, and honestly, these guys need to get back to basics. I think my little girls could give them a run for their money.

Their coach should be on them. Instead, he’s sitting in his folding lawn chair in the middle of the ice rink, half asleep, snoozing off a hangover.

I decorated the ice rink for the holidays, with garland on top of the plexiglass dividers and snowflakes on the glass. But the Rhode Islanders are anything but festive.

Surly, no sense of camaraderie, no holiday-inspired kindness—they’re all off in their own little worlds. They are just toddlers—gigantic six-foot-plus toddlers who are two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle—but still toddlers.

Look at them squabble over who gets which of the identical pucks.

The assistant coach has zero control. He reeked of weed when I ran into him earlier. He also tried to get me to lend him money.

“Keep your head up!” I finally yell as Ziggy, a D-man, sends the laziest pass in the history of the sport to Cookie.

Cookie spooks, misses it, starts crying, then the GM—who looks like he’s one dose of blood thinner away from a massive heart attack—screams at him.

My video is ruined now. No one wants to see the rookie crying.

I stare at the empty stadium. If these were the Direwolves in Manhattan, it would be packed with fans wanting to see their favorite players and kids looking for an autographed puck. I’ve placed a few inflatable elves around the stadium to make it look less desolate. But the elves just look creepy.

The door to the lobby squeaks open then slams against the wall.

“Hey, people!” I call. Maybe I can do a video of the fans. They may very well be the only Rhode Islanders fans to exist.

Despite my best efforts—including giveaways, dress-like-your-favorite-player contests, and even free food—I can’t move the needle on attendance.

We have five, literally five, season ticket holders, and one of them is a guy who bought tickets drunk and has been trying to return them ever since he found out.

The people that do show up are on their phones.

They come to the game late and leave early.

Rhode Islanders colors have never outnumbered the away team’s fans.

“Things can only go up from here,” I remind myself. Look at all these excited new fans. Sure, they’re not dressed in team colors, but I have extra jerseys to give out.

“Hey! Hello! Hi, fellow fans! Merry Christmas! Do you want free swag? You don’t even have to wait till Christmas Eve to open it.”

The fans don’t seem excited to trade their all-black attire for burgundy and gray—probably because it’s going to clash with the bright-yellow FBI letters on their shirts…

“Shiiitttt.”

I almost trip down the stadium steps on my way to the ice as the FBI and a SWAT team swarm the Rhode Islanders’ practice.

Fletcher looks freaked out for a second and turns like he’s about to bolt until the agents and the SWAT team jump the GM.

“I didn’t do it!” he screams as they tackle him to the floor and handcuff him.

The coach snorts awake as an FBI agent sticks a badge in his face. “Joseph Demarcus, you’re under arrest for collusion in gambling, drug trafficking, and exotic animal trading—”

“I thought this was America,” he says through wet coughs. “Man can’t buy a gorilla?”

“Embezzlement, tax fraud…” the FBI agent continues to list.

“You’ll never take me alive!” the GM screams, red-faced and sweating.

Yeah, that might be coming sooner than you think…

“Fuck this shit,” one of the assistant coaches is cursing as he’s forced down on the ground.

“I told you that you were going to get caught. I have all the information. I can testify! I don’t want to go to jail,” he begs the FBI agent who’s dragging him off the ice.

“It’s Christmas! You can’t make me spend the holidays in jail.

My mother is going to kill me. You don’t understand… ”

The FBI head past me down the tunnels that lead to the team’s windowless offices, swarming and carting away boxes of electronics and paperwork.

“Oh my gosh, this is terrible. I need to call Dana Holbrook.” I run around in a panic.

“You can’t take him away,” I beg the agents as they drag Joe Demarcus to the exit in handcuffs.

“That’s our coach. We’re already doing badly.

What are we supposed to do without a coach?

We have to play the Direwolves tomorrow night. You’ll let him out on bail, right?”

The FBI agent snorts. “Coach or no coach, y’all were gonna lose that match.”

The hockey players watch in horror.

I’m in bad shape, but they’re worse off.

They gave their whole lives to play in the NHL, and now with no coach, no GM?

And they have to play the Direwolves in two days?

They’re hosed. This horrible season will be a black mark on their records forever.

Once their contracts run out? They’re never playing in the National Hockey League again.

It’s deathly silent when the FBI clears out, the door slamming on the GM’s screams.

I point my phone camera to the nonarrested skills coach who’s whispering with the equipment manager. “So, how about some words of wisdom from the Rhode Islanders’ new coach?”

“New coach?” He scoffs at me. “Fuck that. You tell Dana Holbrook I quit. My cousin works in Toronto, and he’s giving me a job. This team sucks. You all suck!” he screams to the players. “I’m out.” He tosses his clipboard on the ice.

I point the camera at the equipment manager. “New coach?”

“I haven’t been paid in weeks.” He spits, tosses the bundle of hockey sticks he was carrying on the ice, and follows the now ex–skills coach.

Fletcher skates over to me, blades a deadly whisper on the ice.

I glance around, trying not to panic. The ice needs cleaning. Did the Zamboni driver quit too?

“So,” he asks me, “are you going to make your grand exit, Candy Cane? That’s the only thing that would end this day on a somewhat positive note.”

“I-I-I…” My mouth gapes, and I put the camera down and stare up into the wintery-gray eyes. “I think I need to go talk to Dana.”

One of the guys raises his hand. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Um…” I look out at the sea of RIHC players—well, most of them. Some of them didn’t even bother to show up to practice.

“Don’t ask her,” Fletcher sneers. “She’s not the coach.”

Fists on hips, I glare up at him. “Yeah, put that on your Christmas list. You’re lucky I’m not your coach, because I’d make you lazy bums work. Hell, you might actually win a game for once.”