Chapter 10 Ellie
ELLIE
“The snacks were a hit, at least,” Harlowe says as we head into Costco. It’s decorated for the holidays, and inflatable elves dressed in hockey gear hang from the rafters, slowly rotating.
Even our local Costco can’t support the Rhode Islanders. The elves are dressed in the Direwolves’ black and yellow.
“Costco. My happy place.” I sigh happily.
“There’s something about being able to buy two years’ worth of cheese puffs that really reminds you of your place on this earth.” Harlowe scans the offerings.
“Your mom says she needs more butter.” Granny Murray grabs a cart. “She said not to tell your father that’s what she puts in the mashed potatoes. No offense—I know you love him—but he’s an idiot if he thinks mashed potatoes taste that good because of oat milk.”
“Hockey players aren’t known to be the brightest. Present company excluded.” Harlowe nudges me.
I load several cases of Lunchables into the cart. “No offense taken. I’m not a hockey player.”
“You kidding me? You looked great out there in practice. My ass never looked as good in leggings.” Harlowe adds five gallons of milk to the buggy.
“It’s not hard to look halfway decent when the guys are just phoning it in. I mean, it’s like they’ve already given up.”
“They are facing the Direwolves. It’s not as bad as facing Seattle, but, like, they are going to get slaughtered. You have, like, three and a half decent forwards, one okay D-man, and a felon for a goalie.”
“I really need that ankle bracelet off of him.” I chew on my lip.
“Your equipment manager’s got you.” Granny Murray salutes.
“Legally, Gran. We have to do it legally,” I beg as she heads off to the tool aisle.
Harlowe stacks two boxes of protein bars on the bottom of the cart.
“I think my dad is right. We’re going to lose.
Badly,” I fret. “Geez, I mean, the guys weren’t even paying attention when I was reviewing the plays.
I don’t think anyone’s read the game notes, and I tried to get Ren to come to the rink for a quick goalie practice, but he just blew me a kiss and said he needed to nap and jerk off.
I mean, God knows what he’s been eating in prison, and he hasn’t touched a puck in what, two weeks?
I really shouldn’t play him, but it’s him or Braxton. ”
“And Braxton’s mom.”
I groan. “It’s like being back at the daycare.”
“That bitch never should have fired you.”
“Her sorority sister complained about me. Of course she’s going to side with her rich friend over me.”
“Her little brat deserved to get punched in the face.” Harlowe is emphatic. “He pulled that little girl’s pants down. If it were me, I’d have taken his eye out with a crayon.”
“I give it three days before Braxton’s mom is trying to get me fired,” I say with a sigh as I contemplate the oil drums of whey powder.
“So you are going to stay on as coach?” My cousin gives me a knowing smirk. “Your mom does want grandkids.”
“Ugh, not you too. Hockey social media gossip accounts are all acting like I’m sleeping with the players.”
“They’re jealous. I mean, anyone would want to sleep with one of those guys.”
“Some of them are children.”
“Fletcher’s not.” Harlowe giggles.
I’m not thinking about Fletcher and the way my car still seems to smell like him. There is something wrong with you if you think an unshowered hockey player smells nice.
Not nice. Intriguing.
“We’ll see how this game goes. I’ll probably get run out of town after the historically bad loss.” I toss a marked-down advent calendar in my basket.
“Don’t you already have an advent calendar?”
“It’s on sale, and sometimes I can’t wait for the next day to get a treat. I need days’ worth of surprise chocolate at once.”
“The Rhode Islanders haven’t been losing as bad since they called up Fletcher,” Harlowe reminds me as we make our way to checkout.
“He’s played two games, and they lost by five points, but the Rhode Islanders haven’t gone against the Direwolves.” I wince when the cashier rings up my purchases. Not that I was making that much money at the daycare, but at least we got reimbursed for snacks and treats and whatnot for the kids.
“Oof,” Harlowe says as I swipe my credit card. “And to think we all wanted to have big families. We do not have big-family jobs or big-family money.”
“Or big-family, high-income husbands.”
“Though,” Harlowe says as we head to the food court, “now that you’re high up in the NHL, you could get a rich hockey player.”
“The highest-paid players are the Finnish guy, who doesn’t speak English; Zayne Murphy, who really needs a twenty-four seven nurse; and Cookie, and I already have two little brothers—I don’t need another.”
“There’s Fletcher.” Harlowe waggles her eyebrows. “He’s hot. And he smells good.”
“Not good.” Intriguing. “He’s a dick. And a problem.
He’s making an already-impossible situation even worse.
He’s fighting me every step of the way.” I take a bite of my hot dog.
It crackles under my tongue, the mustard spicy on the roof of my mouth.
I close my eyes and sink into the bliss that is cheap grilled meat.
“You oughtta be ashamed of yourself,” a woman says shrilly behind me. I almost choke on my hot dog as I turn to see who is yelling at me.
I gulp down my Diet Coke as Harlowe stands up. “Ashamed?” my friend demands.
“You stole that coaching job.”
“Stole from who?” I cough.
“You conned your way into that job,” the woman rails at me. “You’re not qualified to coach an NHL team. You slept your way to the top.”
“It’s the worst damn team in the NHL. If she’s sleeping her way to the top, you’d think she’d be in NYC fucking her way through the Direwolves,” Harlowe yells at her.
“You’re just jealous, Moira,” Granny Murray hollers at the woman. “You think your precious son, who lives in your basement, may I add—”
“Gran, I live at home. Maybe don’t throw stones from glass houses and all that,” I mumble.
“He couldn’t even make it onto the junior A-team, and you think he was going to be a coach? He can’t even find his own dick under his foreskin.”
“You witch! He’d be better than her!”
We are drawing a crowd. I recognize several people from Mom’s book club.
“Ellie!”
“Hi, Mrs. Harrison.” My mouth is dry. “How’s your cat doing? My mom said you had to take her to the emergency vet.”
“Yes, she ate a sock, but all is well now! I’m bringing my famous peppermint bark by—let your mom know.”
“That’s perfect. We’re having family over.”
“…a bum,” Granny Murray is railing. “You wiped his ass up till he was age seven then never taught him to do it himself. You were co-sleeping with him when he was a teenager.”
The woman huffs. Her shopping buddies glare at me and Gran. “I know you don’t belong there,” she says, “and you’re going to lose that game tomorrow and ruin those poor boys’ futures. Then everyone else will know it too.”