Chapter 9 Fletcher
FLETCHER
“Great practice, everyone. I’m seeing a lot of improvement,” Ellie announces.
It’s so obvious Ellie is lying. Her eye is twitching.
It was a terrible practice.
Harlowe is waiting by the tunnel, the good-smelling boxes by her side. “You get one corn muffin and one pig in a blanket,” she announces. “One!” She slaps at Cookie.
“He shouldn’t get any,” Eddie complains as he accepts his snack. “He won’t even play.”
“You don’t want to play?” Ellie coos to Cookie.
“I can’t.” The words are barely a whisper.
“I wish I could get paid a million dollars to sit on a bench,” I announce loudly.
Cookie shrinks into himself. I almost feel bad.
Ellie gives me a disappointed look, which shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
The Finnish giant brushes past me, gives Harlowe a brilliantly white smile—must be all the fermented fish bones they eat over there—says something that sounds like “eel guts” to her, and waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Ellie’s friend giggles and hands him two of the pigs in a blanket.
There’s more unintelligible, garbled language from the Finn, then he’s happily strutting to the locker rooms with more than his fair share of the snacks.
“This is so good,” Jovi groans as I accept my snack from Harlowe.
“Aren’t captains supposed to eat last?” Bramms smirks at me as he accepts his food on a napkin.
I glare down at the A that’s sprouted up on my jersey then glare even more intensely when I bite into the sausage roll and it’s somehow the best thing I’ve eaten all year.
As I take another bite, Ellie’s up on me like a little Yorkie—like the one my mom used to have—barking at me. “You need to be nicer to Cookie. He’s having a rough time.”
“I’m not his mom.”
“He looks up to you.”
“He will be firmly disabused of that notion.”
“You know, you could be a great NHL captain one day.”
For a second, I believe her, like my childhood dreams of being the next Zayne Murphy could come true. Too bad that dream was dashed when I beat up that star NHL player’s son in juniors five years ago and, instead of getting drafted, had to go into the military to avoid jail.
You’re not an NHL player. You’re a hired gun, I remind myself.
“Cookie needs to learn life sucks,” I tell Ellie.
“We can make it suck a little less for our teammates.” Then she’s off, flitting between the players, offering kind words, praising them each for something they did in practice.
She’s making them soft, I think then remind myself that our team literally cannot get any worse, so who cares.
Cookie’s anxiously hanging back from the group. He looks young and lost.
Not my problem.
He gives me an anxious glance as I walk up, balancing on my skates. I nudge him with my glove. “You want my muffin? I don’t really eat them.”
“Oh yeah, thanks!” He gives me a small, nervous smile. “Do you really think we’re going to lose tonight?”
We definitely will if you don’t play. I bite back the words. “Probably. But you know,” I coax, “you’re good. If you play, we’d have a shot.”
Cookie cringes.
“You don’t have to help us win—just score a few goals.
Everyone will see that you’re as good as they promised.
Hell, kid—” I lay a hand on his shoulder.
“You were this year’s first-round draft pick.
You could get a trade deal out of it, go to a real team, have the star NHL career every kid who ever strapped on a pair of hockey skates dreams of. ”
Cookie looks down at the snacks in his hand. “I don’t know if other teams will give you homemade snacks.”
“Probably not, but they’ll give you a Stanley Cup.”
Jovi rushes over to me. “There’s a woman in the locker room, and not a nice one.”
“Out!” a heavyset, middle-aged woman screams when we try to head to the showers. “My baby, Braxton, needs to use the shower first.”
Ellie elbows through the men huddled away from the locker-room door.
“Back!” the woman swings her designer purse. “Heathens!”
The purse whacks my elbow.
“Please don’t hit my players,” Ellie begs.
“We’ve got an injury!” her grandmother bellows, rushing over to me with ice packs.
“It just got my body armor—I mean, pads.” I’m not supposed to have been in the military the last four years. According to my cover, I was playing hockey in Switzerland. But no one seems to have noticed, because Mrs. Beavers has pulled out pepper spray.
“And I want you to make sure my baby has ice time!” She berates Ellie.
“Mom, I don’t wanna play! I told you I want to be a video game streamer.” Braxton throws himself down on the bench.
Fucked. We are fucked, Bramms is mouthing while I try to keep Ellie between me and the large can of pepper spray.
“So we’re not going to have a goalie?” Jonesy is freaking out.
“I was supposed to be the backup goalie. You said I didn’t have to play,” Braxton whines.
“Fletcher!” Ellie’s using her teacher voice. “I need you to get dressed. You’re coming with me, Mr. Associate Captain. We are going to bail our starter goalie out of jail.”
I gesture helplessly to the woman. “Can the guys shower first, then Braxton can shower?”
“We have homeschooling co-op!” Her nostrils flare.
I strip off my gear in the hallway and leave it for the new equipment manager.
The old woman looks me up and down in my skintight underlayer and whistles appreciatively. “Nice work.”
“Thanks.” I wink at her.
“Granny!” Ellie hisses.
“Hey, I read a management book once that said compliments go a long way to getting people on your side,” the old woman says.
“I won’t file a sexual harassment lawsuit against you if you tell me what a nice ass I have.” I smirk at Ellie.
“Your ass is going to be benched if you don’t behave,” Ellie warns.
“Yikes, Coach. Straight to the nuclear button, huh?” I pull on my sweatpants and shove my feet into my boots. “If you think a goalie with a criminal record is the thing to save this team, you’re an even worse coach than I thought.”
I hold on for dear life as Ellie whips the SUV around a corner, narrowly missing a stop sign.
“I think you were supposed to stop there.”
“You’re not from Maplewood Falls, are you?” she says as she floors the gas and runs through a yellow light right as it turns red.
Someone wearing an inflatable reindeer costume yells at her and gives her the finger. Ellie rolls down the passenger-side window to scream at the guy and almost runs into a car decorated to look like Santa’s sleigh.
The cold air blasts in my face. “At least if I die, I won’t have to play the Direwolves.”
I roll up the window, or try to. Ellie rolls it back down. “I just think you could have showered before getting in my car.”
“You don’t like the smell of hot male?”
“Hockey players smell atrocious.”
“You didn’t need to bring me along. Are you scared of the big bad goalie?”
She gives me a blank look. “No.”
“Of course you are.”
She then gives me a patronizing look. “I see that you have never worked as a camp counselor or in any sort of early-childhood development. Staff are never alone with a child.”
“So we are going to have two child-bride goalies? We’re not just going to lose—we’re going to be utterly humiliated. Are you part of the gambling ring?” I demand.
“You’re my other adult in the room. You’re the alternate captain.”
The other adult.
I’m not an adult. I mean, Hudson’s the adult. I’m just… I’m the guy who fucks up, who’s too stupid to accept that his mom is a lowlife and puts his neck out for her over and over until he almost gets his head cut off.
I do owe Hudson, though, I think vaguely as I follow Ellie to the squatty cinderblock prison. I could be here right now, rotting away behind bars instead of playing for the NHL.
The police officer in the front office looks bored when we enter.
“Merry Christmas!” Ellie chirps. “I’m here to bail out a prisoner—Stonewall Renwick, goes by Ren?”
The guard grunts and types something on her computer.
“Um…” Ellie’s fumbling to get her wallet out. “Do you take credit card?”
“Two-point-five percent fee for credit card transactions.” The guard snaps her gum.
There’s a loud buzzing noise, then a metal gate opens, and two heavyset police officers are dragging out a barefoot, shirtless man covered in tattoos—yes, on his face, too—and missing a few teeth. “And I’ll take a piss on your mother’s grave as soon as I get out of these handcuffs!” he hollers.
The cop unlocks the cuffs. Ellie’s eye is twitching.
“Uh, the ankle bracelet…” Ellie points to the chunky bracelet. “We won’t be able to get his hockey boots on, let alone any of the goalie pads.”
“Where are my flip-flops?” Ren demands. “I have a constitutional right to have my things returned to me.”
“Not me.” The officer shakes his head. “You gotta talk to his parole officer.”
“Great. Well, we’ll talk to the equipment manager.” Ellie sighs.
“Your grandmother, who I’m pretty sure I saw doing shots with Murphy’s Law—that equipment manager?”
“It’s a team effort,” Ellie tells me through a gritted smile. “We’re all trying to make sure that we win.”
“Well, goddamn,” the goalie drawls in a thick Southern accent and looks Ellie up and down. “The rumors are true. I heard the guard gossipin’, but I ain’t believe a word I heard.”
“Watch your mouth,” I snarl at him.
“The boyfriend?” He raises one eyebrow, causing the tattoos crawling all over his forehead to wrinkle.
“Alternate captain.”
“Damn Yankee.” He spits on the ground. “And a shitty hockey player too.”
Fuck this guy.
“Guess this weather is a little different from Mississippi,” Ellie says as Ren makes a big show of getting the door for her and letting it slam in my face.
“Aw, shucks, ma’am, my birth daddy’s actually a damn Yankee.
Piece of shit from upstate NYC.” Ren walks barefoot through the snow next to Ellie.
“He played for Boston back in the day. That’s the only reason I took this goalie job.
Free plane ticket up to New England, all so’s I can take a shit on his front lawn.
Got arrested for public indecency, public intoxication—oh, and I stole a police car. ”
Ellie giggles. Why the hell do women find men like him charming?
“Back seat, Yankee Doodle,” he barks at me when I reach for the door.
“Fuck you.” I shove him away from the front passenger door.
He shoves me back. Harder. “I’m important. You’re just some shithead call-up from the minors.”
“Fletcher, get in the back seat, please.” Ellie gives me a stern look.
I hate that goalie.
Ellie beams at Ren as I crawl in the back of the SUV. “We brought you a snack!”
“Thanks, darlin’.”
“The hell—don’t talk to our coach like that.”
The goalie turns in his seat, peers at me, then, quick as a snake, his arm darts out and snipes the sunglasses off my face. Strangling a curse, I scuttle back on the seat.
“Ooh!” Ellie squeals and giggles. “You’re fast.”
“You’re fast,” I mock.
“It’s all the tattoos,” Ren says in that molasses accent, slipping my shades on his face.
“I have tattoos too,” I say before I can stop myself.
Ren turns, snaps off part of the snack Ellie brought with the side of his mouth that still has teeth, and looks at me over my sunglasses.
“You gonna do a show-and-tell, Yankee?”
I bare my teeth at him.
“Very intimidatin’, cap-ee-tan.”
“I can’t wait to see what you do,” Ellie gushes as she peels out of the parking lot, tires screeching as she skids on an ice patch. “We have a game tonight. You don’t have to play if you’re not up to it, of course, after your ordeal.”
Ren stretches his leg out. “Just a little rusty. Been sitting in jail for two weeks, ain’t been practicing. But I’ll do it for you, darling.”
“Good. We need you.” Ellie blows out a breath.
“I heard we’re up against the Direwolves. Fixing to get slaughtered, you reckon?”
“I have faith.” She must, because she blows through another yellow light.
“Fuck faith. We need a goddamn Christmas miracle.”