Chapter 7 Fletcher
FLETCHER
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Our new coach slips and slides up to the stadium.
She’s got a huge ring of keys with her. “The equipment guys didn’t open this up?
” she chatters. Her cheeks are pink. She’s not wearing any makeup, and I’m pretty sure that’s a pajama top under her half-zipped coat.
She looks frazzled. Inexperienced. Incompetent.
“I downgrade our loss tonight from ten to nothing to fifteen to nothing,” I grumble.
“Better make it an even twenty.” Bramms nudges me and jerks his head.
Murphy’s Law is puking his guts out into a skeletal bush on which someone has hung green and red ornaments. It’s a metaphor for something… this team, my life.
Coach Candy Cane still can’t find the key to get the stadium open.
I grab them from her, pick one at random.
“I already tried that one,” she protests.
“Well, I’m trying it again.”
The SUV that brought her does a J-turn, knocks over a trash can, and parks halfway on the sidewalk.
Ellie’s friend Harlowe, the girl who helped me get situated with a place to live and bought the train ticket when I first got called up from the minor league, starts unloading boxes.
“Yum.” Jovi sniffs the air. “Something smells good.”
“I told you,” Ellie is saying, jumping up and down as I fiddle with the keys.
“This is the right key.” I shove my shoulder to the door and turn the key. “See. I was right. You were wrong. I’ll take that apology now.”
“For someone on a probationary contract, he sure is cocky.” She sniffs.
An elderly woman and Harlowe carry a stack of boxes to the door.
The guys just watch.
I wait a beat. “Get those boxes,” I finally snap at them.
Ziggy and Bramms jump into action and gather the boxes from the women.
“Those snacks are for after practice,” Ellie warns as we stomp into the stadium.
“Harlowe,” Ellie whispers as we gaze out over the ice. The rough, chopped-up ice. “Where is the Zamboni driver? Why didn’t anyone clean this?”
“Equipment guys all quit. Heinze took the whole crew with him,” I call over my shoulder as I head to the locker room. “Zamboni key is this one.” I toss it back to her.
Ellie sighs.
“I just have to say”—I turn toward her fully and spread my arms—“and I know it’s not my place—a lowly minor league player—but this NHL team is very poorly run.”
“Well, you could step up and help.”
“They don’t pay me enough to help.” I turn on my heel and head to the locker room.
Well, pretend to. The FBI raided the offices yesterday, but there has to be something left there I can get to Hudson, right? I’ve been on this team for a week, and I have nothing to show for myself. I have to clear that debt off. I have to.
Pressing myself flat against the wall down the windowless corridor, I sneak to the offices. The doors are busted from the FBI, and it’s nothing to slip inside.
But there’s nothing in there that will point to the team being used for money laundering. Like it would be that easy. I stew as I head back to the ice.
Heavy metal music blares over the speaker as I exit the corridor.
“What the—” I pause, watching as the gates open and the giant Zamboni machine rolls onto the ice.
“Granny Murray, be careful!” Ellie is calling to her grandmother.
“I’m old, not made of glass!”
“She’s worried about the Zamboni—it’s finicky,” Harlowe calls.
“You girls are worse than your fathers. You think I don’t know how to ride a finicky machine? I was married to your grandfather for decades.” The Zamboni belches steam.
“Is that the new equipment manager?” I whisper to Ellie, who’s shuffling through papers.
She jumps, and the papers scatter. “My grandmother?” she yelps. “God, no! I mean, I hope not. Dana said I couldn’t hire anyone.” She’s chewing on her lip.
My eyes narrow.
She tugs at the collar of her shirt as I stare at her.
This girl has direct access to Dana Holbrook. Dana Holbrook who hasn’t even gone to a single game and stays locked up in Holbrook Enterprises tower.
It’s not a lead, but it’s a concept of a lead.
“Aren’t you gonna—I mean—” She clears her throat. “Go get changed and get on the ice. Stop creeping around.”
“I was just waiting to see if you were going to come watch. You’re the coach. You’re allowed to be in the locker room whenever you want.” I wink at her.
Her face is tomato red. “That’s your safe space,” she croaks, “so I will be out here. Where everyone is fully clothed.”
“Missing out, Candy Cane.”
Ellie’s obviously not going to make it. She’ll be gone in a couple days, tops. For one, the NHL isn’t going to let some girl coach one of their teams, even if it’s the worst team in the league.
I just have to goad her enough to get Dana Holbrook to come to Maplewood Falls. I’ll steal the billionaire’s laptop or phone or tablet or whatever and then hand over the data to Hudson. Then I’m in the clear.
And the passkey—you need the passkey.
Okay, sure, yeah, but miracles can happen, right?
Yeah, and we could win the Stanley Cup.
It’s a bad plan.
A bad plan is better than no plan.
Well… except if Ellie is the plan to turn the Rhode Islanders into a real NHL team. That’s a terrible plan.
Somehow, the locker room feels even more like a funeral parlor than normal. The captain sets the tone, and Zayne Murphy is slumped over on the bench. Someone has shoved a trash can between his legs.
“He smells bad,” Ziggy complains.
Zayne is not dressed.
“Get your gear on,” I tell him. “We have practice.”
“I thought you were out there making her quit.” Eddie is on his phone.
The only person dressed for practice is the Finnish giant. He makes an angry noise.
I turn on the group. “Practice is already thirty minutes behind schedule. Why the fuck are you fuckers not dressed?”
“But the ice—”
“There’s not—”
“The ice is not your problem,” I roar.
“It is if I break something,” Eddie snaps.
“Man the fuck up.”
“Who died and made you captain?” the D-man sneers.
I buck up to Eddie. I have thirty pounds and three inches on him.
Hudson’s right—I am not here to play hockey. I’m here to clear my debt. I’m not playing around with Eddie.
Before I can escalate things, Zayne throws up in his trash can.
Cookie makes a face.
Zayne hauls himself upright.
Bramms hands him a bottle of scotch.
“Just a whiff,” Bramms protests when I snarl at him. “Just to take the edge off.”
“Get dressed,” Zayne Murphy rasps. “Coach is waiting.”
“See?” Ellie’s Granny Murray dusts off her hands as we look at the gleaming, freshly cleaned ice. “Told ya! I gotchu, girl.”
The players—already huge men—are even more massive when balanced precariously on the blades of their skates, rolling their shoulders under the pads as they join her out on the ice.
“Changing out of your PJs,” I whisper to her as I pass, “is not gonna be enough to make the guys respect you.” I put my back to her. “Where are the goalies?”
“Traded,” Carlsson says, showing me on his phone. “We’ll have to call up guys from the minors.”
“Does the coach know that’s how it works?” Ziggy smirks.
“I bet we show up on game day and there’s no goalie,” Jovi snickers.
“No phones on the ice,” Ellie orders.
We ignore her. My teammates chirp at each other on the ice, skating around, shoving each other, making raunchy jokes.
“Listen up!” Ellie raises her voice.
The men ignore her.
“If we can all just pay attention and—”
One of the rookies shrieks as his friend shoves him on the ice. They scuffle, wrestling each other, slipping and sliding.
If this was a real NHL team, the captain would never have let that behavior go on. Shoot, one of the alternate captains would have stepped in ten minutes ago.
Zayne Murphy is half passed out, leaning heavily on his stick, his head lolling down.
It’s so early in the season no alternate captains have been named, and well, Ellie’s the only coach in the room.
I wink at her. She looks pissed.
“Man.” Jovi is ADHD-caffeinated on a slushie of energy drinks and Five-hour Energy shots, and buzzing. “You think Ryder O’Connell will sign my puck tonight?”
“You can’t get a player on the opposing team to sign your puck, idiot.” Ziggy gives him a hard shove.
“Why do we even have to practice before that game?” Bramms sighs.
“We should go pray.” Carlsson is solemn.
“My parents are coming in,” Jovi says, talking a mile a minute. “My sister wants to go to the Christmas market, and so does my aunt. My aunt likes to shop. My dad thinks she has a shopping addiction, but I don’t think so. And so I want to leave early today. You think Coach will let us leave early?”
“I think you can probably just walk outta here whenever the hell you want,” Eddie jokes.
A few yards away, Ellie is steaming. “I need you all to pay attention—”
I smirk behind my glove, chewing on my mouthguard as I slowly spin around.
“They have reindeer at the Christmas market—real reindeer,” Jovi chatters, “and you can pet them and feed them and—oh!” Suddenly, he freezes. “I know this game. I know this game!” He slaps a glove over his mouth and holds up his hand.
I peer behind me. Ellie is standing there on center ice, calmly, quietly, one finger over her lips, the other hand raised, index finger up.
“What the fuck?”
Cookie claps his glove over his mouth, and his hand goes up.
She puts two fingers up.
The Finnish giant mimics the motion.
Bramms follows, then Ziggy, then more of the team does it, too, especially once Zayne snorts awake and puts his hand up.
“What are we, in kindergarten?” I cross my arms. “The groupthink is strong with you all.” My voice sounds weird and awkward in the silence of the ice rink. I cringe like I’ve done something very wrong.
At that point, even Eddie unwillingly covers his mouth and puts his hand up.
I’m the last one standing.
The guys all give me ugly looks.
I hate being human, I decide, as I, too, finally cover my own mouth and put my hand up.
Ellie holds up the fifth finger. “My class,” she says calmly but weirdly authoritatively. “We have a game tonight, so we’re all going to pull together and—”
“I need to speak to the manager of this establishment!” a woman yells from across the ice.