Chapter 11 Fletcher
FLETCHER
Istand half hidden in shadows on the top tier of seats in the Holbrook Enterprises Stadium, watching the Manhattan Direwolves swagger in for their pregame practice.
When I was a kid and I dreamed of being in the NHL, these guys were who I wanted to be.
Specifically, someone like Ryder O’Connell.
He came into the league in a roundabout way but is now considered one of the best players of his generation: Fast. Acute hockey IQ.
Handsome. Sincere. Smart. Good on camera.
Team player. “Leadership” is what hockey players spew out whenever they’re asked to describe him. That or “aura.”
The whole Direwolves team is god tier. Even the coaches. Their coaching team is basically the USA National coaching team.
I know I’m not supposed to be watching as their coach calmly but assuredly calls out drills and the guys react like they’re trained military operatives or something. Everyone locked in, focused.
“Man. I remember those days. The world at your feet… when we were gods…” Zayne lets out a belch and takes a swig of vodka.
The noise ricochets around the empty stadium, and I drag him back into the shadows as the Direwolves all look up at the stands as one.
The media’s already lining up. I grab Zayne’s now-empty bottle and toss it into a trash can before the media can get photos of him. He’s obviously drunk and gonna cost us the game, but shit, he’s my childhood hero. I can’t let him go out like this.
“Everyone wants to see the NHL’s first female coach lose her first game,” Eddie remarks when I shove Zayne into the locker room and head to the meal spread to get him something to soak up the liquor. In his prime, he would have been the terror of the Direwolves. Now? Maybe he’ll be a puck sponge.
“Fuck off, Eddie.”
“Yeah, fuck off, Eddie.” Ren swaggers into the locker room. He’s barefoot in a wifebeater and cutoff jean shorts, the ankle monitor big and bulky on his leg. He flops down next to Jonesy, props his dirty foot up on my bag, stuffs something in his mouth, and licks the grease off his fingers.
I glare down at him. “What the hell are you eating?”
“Your dick.”
“Did you get McDonald’s? We’re already gonna lose—you can’t be in a fast-food coma in the net,” I bitch at him.
“I want chicken nuggets,” two of the rookies complain. “That’s not fair.”
Ren grabs my water bottle and squirts it in his mouth. “It ain’t chicken nuggets, kids, it’s a bagel pizza. I guess this is what your people eat up here. Not as good as a biscuit and gravy.”
“The fuck—”
“Pizza!”
I stalk into the kitchen after the rookies.
“Are we ready for a snack?” A pleasant-looking woman beams at me. She looks unsettlingly familiar.
“My daughter told me that you all are supposed to eat before a game.” Ellie’s mom.
Trina is the name embroidered on the apron.
“These are what I always make my boys. I took some to the Direwolves too. They have fancy nutritionists, and my boys said they wouldn’t eat these—can you believe it?
But you look like you want some.” She holds up the pan.
My stomach grumbles. “It’s not in the meal plan. Did the nutritionist okay this?” I know it sounds sour and ungrateful, but geez, she might as well serve us beer and pretzels.
Ellie rushes in, red-faced. “The nutritionist quit.” The door slams behind her, cutting off yells from the media. “Mom, healthy—I said healthy!”
“It’s got protein, and that’s real tomato sauce—homemade, not ketchup like Hilda puts on her pizzas. And she wonders why her children never come home to see her.” Trina is offended.
“Mom,” Ellie complains as her mom tries to scrub at her face.
“You have to go on camera. I want you to look your best, snickerdoodle.”
“So you have your whole family working here, Coach Candy Cane—or should I say, Coach Snickerdoodle?”
Ellie glares at me.
“I’m a volunteer,” Trina says happily. “I’m so excited to be a team mom again.”
“It’s temporary, Mom, temporary until Dana removes the hiring freeze.”
“Paid nutritionists won’t make team snacks with love.” Ellie’s mom loads up a plate with steaming bagel halves oozing cheese and pepperoni grease.
Jovi and Bramms come in drooling, followed by Cookie, who is immediately babied by Ellie’s mom, a napkin quickly tucked around his neck.
“Is she hand-feeding him?” I whisper to Ellie.
She grimaces. “You don’t have to eat that. I have protein bars.”
“Do I want a bitter-tasting, freeze-dried protein bar?” I muse. “Nah. Screw it. I’m about to be slaughtered by the Direwolves in front of a crowd of twenty thousand plus the millions and millions of people watching to see if a girl can, in fact, coach in the NHL.”
Ellie claps a hand to her mouth. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
I take a bite of the bagel as she races off to find a bathroom.
“All the bathrooms are male only,” I call after her.
“You might need to pee in a—goddamn, that’s fucking good.
” After years of military meals then whatever protein-rich slop the nutritionists prepared for us, it has been a while since I’ve had a good meal.
Ellie’s mom beams as the team stuffs our faces.
“Cheese,” Ziggy groans. “I need more women in my life.”
“Can we have pot roast for the next meal?” Carlsson begs.
“With mashed potatoes,” Jonesy begs.
I should protest, should insist on chickpea pasta with a sauce made out of bean-and-chicken paste. Instead, I stuff another bagel in my mouth, the hot cheese singeing the roof of my mouth.
“You know what?” Bramms says around the bread and cheese. “I have a really good feeling about this game. It might be the grease-and-sodium high, but I think we’re gonna win this one.”
“Yeah, we fucking got this.” Jonesy downs more pizza.
“I made a Milky Way bar cake for dessert,” Ellie’s mom calls.
“Chocolate!” the rookies cheer.
“No.” Ellie rushes back into the room, her hairline damp like she’s splashed water on her face. “No cake. Brush your teeth then go get dressed. We have a game.”
Ellie’s mom sneaks us slices of cake while Ellie and Harlowe try to manhandle Zayne into his uniform. Ellie’s also trying to stuff food down his throat without choking him.
Her grandmother pulls up a chair in front of Ren and pulls out a hacksaw and an electric drill and starts going to town on the ankle monitor.
“Gran, delicately, delicately—we can’t—” The thing starts beeping angrily.
The elderly woman takes out a mallet and smashes it to pieces on the floor. “Fuck the government.”
“No, no, no!” Ellie tries to piece the ankle monitor back together. “My goalie cannot go back to prison. We need him.”
“She needs me.” Ren waggles his eyebrows at me, one of which looks like it was split open and superglued back together crooked.
“We haven’t actually seen him play,” I say snidely. Ren pulls out what looks like a prison shank.
Ziggy yanks me away. “We can’t lose you, man. He’s good, he’s all good,” Ziggy says to Ren.
Granny Murray dusts off her hands. “I have a gun in my purse. The feds show up, I’ll hold them off.”
Ellie’s mother appears in the doorway with more slices of cake. “Your dad’s cousin Beater is on the parole board, Ellie. I’ll bake him a Victoria sponge cake and get that sorted right out.” She beams at us. “Oh, I’m so happy to be involved with a hockey team again!”
Bramms helpfully takes the tray of cake slices she’s carrying so she can wrap Ellie into a big hug.
“Mom, Mom, Mooom!”
I take another piece. If I’m going to die in humiliation, at least it will be hyped up on sugar.
“I can’t play,” Braxton whines in his oversized goalie gear. “I’m allergic to dairy. I didn’t get a snack. Didn’t my mom tell you I have a dairy allergy?”
“I pulled your file—you don’t have a dairy allergy. But,” Ellie adds, “that’s okay. You can sit on the bench with Cookie and cheer on your team.”
The Finnish giant eats his cake in two massive bites, says something in Scandinavian, then slams his helmet on his head.
It’s the chocolate or the sugar or the carbs, but I’m feeling pumped as Ellie tells us to gather around.
“Story time,” she sings. Cookie and the other rookies flop down on the floor at her feet. She holds up a book.
“Wait, we’re actually having story time?” I scoff.
“We’re actually looking at the plays. I’ve been watching tapes of the Direwolves’ games, and here’s how we’re going to win.”
It’s so matter-of-fact. She has this soothing but authoritative way of talking—it lulls me back to elementary school, when school was the escape from home and my teacher Mrs. Smith would let you select a prize if you answered a question correctly.
The plays are good. Not overly complicated. Thoughtful. And well drawn. All my other coaches—not just the one in jail—would just scribble wildly on a board while yelling angry and conflicting information at us then wonder why we didn’t know what we were doing on the ice.
I perk up when Ellie starts giving the line assignments of which players are going to be on the ice together. I’m on a line with Zayne Murphy and the Finn. My childhood self is freaking out right now.
“Captain,” she says to Zayne after we all have our line assignments. “How about a speech?”
Zayne hauls himself up then immediately doubles over and pukes.
“Bad omen. Bad, bad, bad,” Jonesy mutters and clutches his lucky bobblehead.
Ellie’s eye is twitching as her grandmother pulls out a mop bucket.
“I’ll make him some mint tea.” Her mother bustles off.
Granny Murray tips Zayne over, practically holding him up. She’s surprisingly strong for an old woman.
“Oof.” Jovi makes a face when the old woman sticks her finger down Zayne’s throat. I curse as he pukes the rest of his dinner into the bucket.
Zayne shakes his head. “Pucks in net, boys,” he slurs. “We got this. Watch out for Jagr—he favors his right leg. Keep him on the boards, and we’ll get shot after shot when his line is on the ice.” He sucks down the water Ellie hands him then splashes some on his face.
“Jagr hasn’t played for the Direwolves in five years,” Bramms hisses at me as Ellie shoos us down the tunnel to the ice.
Ellie is excited, practically jumping up and down next to me as I stand there watching Jovi try to coax Cookie onto the ice.
“It’s your first NHL game as an alternate captain!
” she says. Perched on the blades of my skates, I look down at her.
I can’t tell if she’s being condescending, but she looks genuinely excited and happy for me.
“Enjoy it! Have fun! You’re a pro hockey player. ”
She grabs my wrist. I can barely feel her fingers through the padded wrist guard and the heavy fabric of the jersey, but they’re there.
I’m an alternate captain on an NHL team. Exhilaration, spurred on by the sugar and caffeine and carbs, surges through me as I step out onto the ice with Zayne and the Finn and the two D-men.
Ren strides by in the bulky goalie gear. He bangs his stick on my ass as he passes. “Keep those fuckers away from my net, Yankee Doodle, or I’m gutting you like a hog.”
The chocolate high wears off as the crowd cheers while we do our warm-ups.
The ref’s waiting with Ryder O’Connell, captain of the Direwolves.
Zayne is barely with it. Probably can’t even write his own name.
The Finn narrows his eyes at me. I give a helpless shrug as his icy blue eyes flick to the ref and Ryder waiting.
I skate over. Ryder nods, clearing his throat.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “Our captain’s trying to get in the zone.”
Zayne looks like he’s falling asleep on his stick.
Ryder gives me an earnest smile, then his face goes serious.
“I think it’s admirable that you all have a female coach.
I know a lot of girls are really excited to see history being made tonight.
” He really is a fucking Boy Scout. “Now,” he adds, “I told my team that I don’t want to hear any nasty comments about Coach Clarke.
We don’t speak that way about women on my team.
And you tell me if you hear anything from any of my players, and I’ll deal with them.
” He’s nice, but there’s steel in his voice.
“Sure, man—I mean…” I try to match his professionalism. “Yessir, I appreciate it.”
“And I hear you’re the league’s newest alternate captain. Congratulations.” He takes off his glove, shakes my hand and everything.
Then he proceeds to beat the ever-loving shit out of us.