Chapter 4 Fletcher
FLETCHER
“Agirl? We have to get coached by a girl?”
“Not just any girl—the PR girl?” Eddie is pacing around the empty house.
The only piece of furniture in the living room is an oversized couch where Zayne Murphy—hockey legend, five-time Stanley Cup champ, two-time Olympic gold medalist, once and future captain of USA Hockey, and my all-time hero—is currently trying to cross off his one and only daily to-do list item of drowning himself in whiskey.
On the TV, the sports-news talking heads are squawking about the girl coach and how this is the beginning of the end for not just the Rhode Island Hockey Club but the NHL in general.
“I mean, might be nice to see some titties other than yours,” Bramms jokes to Ziggy.
“It’s a gimmick,” I say flatly.
“Does that mean we get free stuff?” Jovi asks me as he chows down on a sandwich made from the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers Zayne catered last week.
“Is there more turkey left?” Ziggy sighs. “I should eat some protein in these trying times.”
“Yeah, Zayne ordered enough for two hundred people, like we were going to have a big happy-hockey-family Christmas.” Eddie snorts. “The Rhode Islanders are not that kind of a team.”
“At least he paid.” I jump to Zayne’s defense.
“He better.” Carlsson glowers.
We aren’t getting paid a lot of money, because Zayne Murphy is getting paid over half of the Rhode Islanders’ salary cap.
“All that money, and he hasn’t played a game sober since Dana Holbrook squirted this team out into the world.” Carlsson shakes his head.
“She should have strangled us in the cradle,” Jonesy states.
“What do you care? At least you’re getting paid,” Bramms grumbles.
“Two mill a year,” Jonesy brags.
“Not as much as—”
I glare at Eddie before he can say what we’re all thinking.
Not that Zayne noticed. Murphy’s Law scratches his belly, belches, and his head lolls to the side.
He lifts up his glass. “’S good you guys are here. House’s empty otherwise. ’S empty.”
He did let us crash in his enormous mansion in the nice part of Maplewood Falls, so at least I don’t have to spend my meager paycheck on rent since Hudson didn’t deign to give me a per diem for my sacrifice.
“You want to talk about people getting more than their fair share?” Ziggy mutters and nods.
Cookie is huddled under a blanket in front of the TV.
He was destined to be the next Zayne Murphy.
A generational talent. They gave him a huge contract with a big signing bonus right after his eighteenth birthday.
He made his NHL debut as the most hyped rookie in the league.
He then scored an own goal at minute 1:37 of the first period of his first-ever NHL game, and coach Joe DeMarcus screamed at him so badly he made Cookie cry on national television.
Cookie’s been so traumatized he hasn’t played in a game since.
The Finnish giant made him some nasty-looking soup, and he’s sitting there in a T-shirt, slurping it while Sportsnet shows video clips from the PR princess’s social media.
There she is in a tutu.
There she is in a giant inflatable unicorn costume gliding around on the ice.
There she is baking cookies that look like hockey sticks and jerseys.
“Yep, she looks super qualified,” Ziggy says bitterly.
“I just need her to be qualified in riding my dick,” Eddie jokes.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I snarl at him, not sure why I’m defending her. I grab the back of his hoodie and shake him roughly.
“All right, all right.” The stocky D-man waves his hands at me. “Shit, man, can’t take a joke.”
“He’s jealous because she’s going to want to go after me before either of you,” Jonesy brags.
“No woman wants a man with a face prettier than hers,” I joke to him.
The Finnish giant, the raccoon T-shirt he’s wearing doing nothing to make him look less intimidating, looks up at the screen then back at our little group lounging around the ottomans. He says something I don’t understand. It sounds vaguely threatening.
I sit up in case he’s about to fight. Even though I kept up with some of my military training with Hudson and the rest of my cousins, I don’t like my chances against Heikkil?inen.
We’re all quiet as he stalks out of the cavernous living room then relax when heavy footsteps go up the stairs.
“Honestly,” Jovi says with a sigh while stretching his hamstring on the floor, “I don’t care if she has tentacles. If she can actually win games, I’ll wear a pink jock.”
On the screen, Sportsnet is showing footage of last night’s Direwolves game. Their captain, Ryder O’Connell, cuts through four guys like they’re peewee players, fakes out the goalie, slides on one knee, and the puck goes flying into the net. The goaltender doesn’t even see it.
They show him scoring five more equally impressive goals. Then it cuts to commercial break, and we watch him tell everyone to drink Gatorade Limited-Edition Neon Yellow for the Direwolves.
“How much you think he gets paid for that? Like, do they write him a half-million-dollar check every time his mug appears on TV?” Bramms stretches his wrists.
“Check under your cap for free tickets,” Ryder reminds us from the screen, holding up the bottle.
“Shit, we can give people free tickets, and they don’t even have to buy a bottle of that stuff.” Jonesy’s mouth turns down.
“Not for the next game,” Eddie says sullenly. “It’s all sold out. They all want to see Ryder.”
“He’s a hockey terminator.” Carlsson sighs.
“Aw, I didn’t win,” Cookie says, looking under his sports-drink cap.
“Probably because he refuses to play,” Carlsson mutters under his breath.
Now ESPN has cut to the betting markets. “If you bet that Rhode Island beats the Direwolves—even just one thousand dollars—you could be a multimillionaire with these odds,” the analyst jokes.
“I bet on us,” Zayne slurs from the couch.
“Dude, no. Goddamn it, we just had the coach arrested for gambling. Players are not allowed to bet on games.” I curse.
“I mean,” Eddie mutters, “might be better if he’s gone. We could actually hire some decent players.”
I can’t betray my childhood self and let my hero be dragged off in disgrace. I fish his phone out of the pocket of his stained sweatpants, grab his thumb to unlock it, and cancel the bet.
“Tens of millions of dollars… No one in their right mind would take that bet.” The reporters are chuckling to each other.
“Especially not if they have a female coach. With that news, the odds that the RIHC loses just went sky-high,” the analyst adds.
“We are so fucked.” Jonesy sags.
“I thought this was going to be the party house,” Bramms complains. “It’s like the sad and depressing house.”
“Eat some turkey,” I sigh. “We need to bulk up for the games.”