Chapter 8 Ellie
ELLIE
“Do one-touch drills,” I instruct the players, shooting a quick pass to Fletcher.
I keep my attention partially on them as I skate over to head off the irate woman. From my time in early childhood education, I have eyes in the back of my head, and I am not turning my focus off the players while I address the angry mom in front of me.
“I’m Coach Clarke. How can I help you?”
Behind me, Bramms puts Cookie in a loose headlock. Cookie starts crying.
“We keep our hands to ourselves!” I bellow.
Bramms gives me a wide-eyed look and jumps back. “You saw that?”
“Yes, just like I saw you miss the net.”
The guys snicker.
“I need to know what your safety protocols are,” the mom is telling me.
“Ma’am, I think you might be in the wrong location. This is the Rhode Islanders team practice, not hockey camp. That’s over at the community center and starts after school lets out…”
The pimple-faced boy next to her pulls down his scarf.
“Ah, our backup goalie is here. Welcome!”
“Braxton is a child,” his mother snips.
“He’s nineteen, Mrs. Beavers.”
“A child!” she rails. “I need assurances that he’s going to be looked after… never mind,” she says, grabbing her son. “I can see that this team is mismanaged. I will not allow my baby to participate in this tomfoolery.”
“Mrs. Beavers.” I plaster on my best customer service face. “We need Braxton to play. He has to play. We need a second goalie.”
“Of course he’s playing,” she harrumphs. “I’m going into the locker room with him to make sure he isn’t kidnapped. Obviously, I’m going to have to be at every practice. I clearly can’t trust you with my only son. He’s so young.”
The kid is six foot six and looks like he weighs a hundred pounds.
He’s the backup—just the backup goalie, I internally chant. My real goalie will be here soon. I hope.
“Ma’am, you cannot go into the locker rooms with the players.” I race after her.
“Then he won’t play.”
“Mom,” the kid whines.
“I am your mother!” she thunders to Braxton.
I will be losing this battle.
“Fine, just put a sign up or something when you’re in there.” I sigh.
“How come she gets to go all Peeping Tom on the players,” Granny Murray complains to me, “and I don’t?”
“Gran, why are you still here?”
“I’m your equipment manager.” She slaps her chest.
“No, you’re not. I mean, just let me handle it.” My eye is twitching again.
On the ice, the men have stopped doing the drill and are trying to stuff pucks down each other’s pants.
“Saint Nick, give me strength.”
Separate out the troublemakers. This would be easier if the captain wasn’t hungover. “Jovi,” I call to him. “Come here, please.” I grab a bucket of pucks. “The rest of you—two-touch drills.”
Jovi follows me like a puppy to the other side of the rink and watches excitedly as I scatter pucks around all over the ice.
“I’m timing you,” I tell him. “All these pucks need to be in the net. Ready, set, go!”
I call Dana as I skate back over to the rest of the group.
“I thought there were no phones on the ice?” Fletcher is snarky.
“Go help the rookies with their backhand passes.”
Dana is annoyed when she answers. “What?”
“Ready for the game?”
“I don’t go to the games.”
Fletcher is watching me. I point to the rookies. He ignores me.
“Well, we have one tonight, and we don’t have an equipment manager or anything like that.”
Silence from Dana.
“And I know you said hiring freeze, but someone has to manage sticks and sharpen skates and—”
“He ripped my jersey!” One forward skates over to me, fabric in hand. I peer at it while I talk to Dana. There’s a hole in the collar of his jersey.
Dana sighs over the phone. “You can hire someone for minimum wage.”
“Well, actually, the going rate for this position is—”
Dana hangs up.
“Trouble on Mount Olympus?” Fletcher drawls. The forwards snicker.
The guys obviously respond to Fletcher. He’s setting the tone. And it’s a tone of dismissive disregard for me.
“Done!” Jovi is panting. “I did it!”
“Okay, gather up the pucks. Our new backup goalie should be getting onto the ice soon.”
“My jersey,” the other forward begs, hopping on his skates.
I wave over Granny Murray. “You’re getting a promotion.”
“Hell yeah! And your dad thinks old people shouldn’t work.”
“In his defense, I think he just meant you shouldn’t work since you got arrested for stealing at Trader Joe’s.”
“They were just throwing all that food away. It was still good!”
“Team! Meet our new equipment manager.”
“Whoo! You studs are gonna have skates sharp enough to slice off the Direwolves’ balls!” Granny Murray whoops.
“Hell yeah!” Several of the guys pump their fists.
“First order of business,” I tell her. “Fletcher is our new associate captain. Let’s get an A on his shirt.”
“I—what?” Fletcher growls. “Candy Cane, I’m not taking any responsibility for any of these morons.”
“Excuse me. He’s allergic to nuts.” Braxton’s mother is slipping and sliding toward me on the ice.
“Ma’am, you cannot be on the ice.”
“I birthed him for nineteen hours. You don’t get to tell me where I can and can’t be with my own son.”
“We’re about to do shooting drills.”
Braxton settles in his crease. He looks the part, at least.
Zayne Murphy hacks up a lung, taps a puck with his stick, hauls back, and shoots the puck.
For a man that has been day drinking, still probably drunk from last night, he’s surprisingly steady as he follows through on the slap shot.
“That’s why he’s Murphy’s Law.” The players are impressed as the shot rockets down the ice and flies right into the corner of the net.
In a delayed reaction, Braxton shrieks and jumps. “It almost hit me.”
“It almost hit him! It almost hit my baby!” his mom yells, batting me with her handbag. “My husband is on the NHL board, and the chairman will hear about this.”
“It’s hockey,” I say desperately. “Someone might get hurt.”
Jovi one-touches Zayne another puck, and he buries it in the net. Which yields more yelping from Braxton.
“You have to try to catch it.” I mime the motion. “Use your blocker.”
Behind me, Fletcher is cursing. “We are so fucked tonight. So fucked.”