Chapter 12 Fletcher
FLETCHER
“We’re only down by three goals,” Ellie says brightly as we file into the locker room after the end of a brutal first period.
Ren grabs me by the collar of my jersey and shoves me against the wall, holding up his stick to my neck. “I thought I told you to keep them pucks away from my goddamn net.” Then he shoves me away, making me stumble on my skates.
“You made some amazing saves,” Ellie gushes to him.
“Be nice if someone could score,” Ren snarls in my direction.
Granny Murray buzzes around, replacing skate blades as we suck down water and protein bars.
I’m gassed. I didn’t know it was possible to sweat that much.
Ellie’s at the whiteboard. Other coaches usually have footage playing and are scribbling nonsense on the whiteboard as they ineffectively describe plays and scream at the players.
“Offense,” Ellie says as she draws perfect little dashed lines to show how she wants us to pinch the D and create more offensive opportunities.
I peer at the whiteboard. “Is that a butterfly?”
“Let’s raise our hands,” Ellie says like it’s an automatic script that she can’t help.
Jovi raises his hand. “Is that a butterfly?”
“Oh,” Ellie says brightly, “it does look like a butterfly. Good job, Jovi! But-ter-fly,” she sounds out the word.
He beams.
What the fuck, Bramms mouths next to me.
“Ooh.” Ellie looks at the clock. “It’s time to play!” She claps her hands. “Line up, single file, hands to yourselves.”
This chick is insane.
I cut forward in line.
“Hey, no cutting in line!” one of the D-men complains when I jump in front of him. I shoot him an ugly look, and his mouth snaps shut.
“Fletcher,” Ellie begins.
I grab her arm, shifting my stick as my teammates file past me onto the ice. “I don’t know what the fuck kind of hippie, gentle-parenting nuttiness is going on here, and I don’t care. We are losing. Butterflies and snack time aren’t gonna save us. You gotta make Cookie play,” I hiss to Ellie.
She gives me a helpless gesture. “He’s traumatized.”
“Cookie,” I snarl at the kid. He squeaks then runs to hide in the players’ bench.
“Stop it,” Ellie snaps at me. “He will play when he’s ready. I think he needs some therapy. Zayne,” she calls to my once and future idol. “Dig deep to win that face-off.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I force through gritted teeth, mindful of the cameras hovering around us. “Zayne can’t play. I saw your grandmother give him a shot of tequila.”
“I can get another three minutes out of him.” Ellie is stubborn.
“Whatever, Coach.” Disgusted, I hop over the boards onto the ice.
Zayne reeks of alcohol next to me as we take the ice—it’s leaking out of his pores. The ref raises the puck, and Zayne almost pitches into Ryder O’Connell as he leans forward for the face-off, righting himself at the last moment.
Fucked. We are fucked.
Ryder wins the face-off. Again.
We’re on the defensive. Even with the tequila surging through his veins, Zayne is still one of the better players on the ice on our side, at least.
Which is truly a testament to how piss-poor the Rhode Islanders are.
Against all odds, Zayne gets the puck away from one of the Direwolves forwards. He surges forward.
He’s doing it. It’s like when I was a kid watching the Olympics—Zayne Murphy with the puck, racing to the net.
Except Ryder’s there somehow, materializing in front of him. He does this little stutter step. Zayne’s reflexes just aren’t there, and he loses control of the puck.
I skate backward, trying desperately to stay up ahead of Ryder, keeping my body between him and the net as he zips up to it, cutting through our defense like they’re peewee hockey players trying to poke check the puck away from him.
He’s gonna fake it. He’s gonna fake it, I tell myself. I’ve watched him play. He’s gonna fake it.
He fakes it.
I’m ready for him, collecting his pass with my stick, trying to manage it and head for the boards.
But three Direwolves are on me, banging into me, trying to knock me off-balance.
I dig in, but I can’t hold onto it. It’s three-on-one because Ryder actually has teammates who have his back, because the Direwolves are a real team.
The puck gets passed back to Ryder. I’m not fast enough to leap across to block Ryder’s shot.
It goes in the net right over Ren’s shoulder.
Ren’s screaming at me as the goal horn blares and lights flash, making me wince. “You should have just stayed the fuck on the other side of the blue line. You blocked my sight. This is your fucking fault!” He throws his glove at me. “Goddamn motherfucking—”
I skate away from him, breathing hard.
“You can’t be in here, Mom,” Ellie is saying when I hop the boards into the bench. Is she even paying attention to the game?
Her mother hands me a bottle of some sports drink with Ryder O’Connell’s face on it. “I’m just trying to be helpful. You don’t have any assistant coaches,” Ellie’s mom argues.
“You’re not even wearing the right jersey.”
“I have to support your brothers.”
“Mom—”
I snarl at Cookie, and he scoots all the way down the bench so I can collapse and choke down the cool liquid.
I stare blankly over the ice as the Direwolves score two goals in quick succession. The numbers tick up: 0-8. And we have thirty-seven minutes to go.
“Did you just put in all forwards?” I snap at her when I see her send in the next line. “We need to be playing defense. What are you doing?”
“Offense is the best defense.”
I will one of the giant inflatable Christmas decorations hanging from the roof to crash down, smother us, and put us all out of our misery.
Ryder and his team score another goal.
“I remember my first NHL game,” Zayne slurs next to me as he sips from a bottle.
“Is that—did someone give him more alcohol?” I yell.
“Goddamn it, Gran, I told you,” Ellie hisses as the goal horn sounds again.
“There’s no mercy rule in the NHL, is there?” Jonesy chews on his mouthguard.
“No,” I say, disgusted. “The whole country is going to watch as the score goes up. It’s going to be twenty to nothing at this rate.”
“… won that game.” Zayne’s head nods as he talks.
“Do you think you can play?” Ellie asks Zayne.
“Are you freaking kidding me? You know who needs to play? Cookie,” I demand.
The rookie cries into his glove.
Ellie reshuffles the lines again and sends out the next wave of victims…
Who are not facing Ryder or any of his linemates because Ryder has pulled all their star players off the ice and is sending out the rookies. They can barely stand on their skates. They stare up at the ceiling and are out of position, and yet still, somehow, we cannot score.
“We’re losing against that?” Bramms cries, throwing his helmet to the ground.
“Bramms, you and Heikkil?inen join with Carlsson’s line.”
“Who?” Bramms squints.
Ellie clicks her tongue. “You’ve been on this team for two months now. You need to know everyone’s name.”
“Fuck their names. Get out on the ice,” I scream at them.
The Finnish giant is, I assume, cursing both my ancestors and my future descendants like I’m the problem here. Meanwhile, Zayne, the actual fucking captain, is drinking again, supplied by an elderly woman.
“Gran, stop giving him alcohol. He has a problem.” Ellie tries to fight the elderly woman for her thermos.
Zayne makes a gurgling noise, pitches back, and falls backward off the bench. Ellie and I both swear and grab him, hauling him back upright.
“Why did you let him drink?” I scream at her. “Why are you letting your grandmother serve hard liquor?”
“I thought he was done for the night.” The elderly woman shrugs.
“No!” I bellow at her.
“Hold onto your nipples, hot stuff. I’ll get him rearing and ready.” Granny Murray starts digging in her fanny pack. “I got Adderall, I got cocaine, I got—”
“Oh God,” Ellie moans.
“Can I have some chocolate cake?” Cookie asks.
“No!” we both shout at him.
Third period’s not much better. Actually, scratch that—third period’s an epic disaster and will go down in NHL history as such.
Zayne’s passed out on the floor.
“You should have just let the old woman give him cocaine,” Jonesy tells me as we line up for face-off.
I don’t even want to look up at the scoreboard to see how badly we’re losing.
One goal. Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas—please, just one goal. One. I don’t need to win. I just need a goal. Not a Christmas miracle, just a Christmas pat on the back.
The Direwolves rookie in front of me has his game face on. I lean in, set my legs for the face-off just like I used to do when I pretended to be Murphy’s Law way back in Juniors.
I win the face-off. The puck shoots to Carlsson, who’s ready. He backhand passes it to the Finn, who’s there then out in front, and I’m waiting, collecting the puck effortlessly on my skate.
It’s suddenly like I haven’t been playing the last hour. There are rockets on my skates as I head to the goal. I can hear Ellie cheering. The crowd roars. I can taste it—my first NHL goal. I crossover, sweep the puck, and—
The goalie comes out and poke checks me, and I go sprawling, tumbling and colliding, dazed, into the net, my back slamming into the pole.
Right.
Just because the Direwolves took out their star forwards doesn’t mean they’re letting us win. They left their iron curtain of a Czech goalie in the net.
He yells at me in guttural Eastern European language while I try to untangle myself so I can help my team so the Direwolves won’t—
“GOAL!”
“Dammit. Fuck.” I smash my stick on the net then dance back before the goalie can go after me.
“Fletcher.” Ellie’s calling me back. I ignore her.
“Dude,” Jovi tells me as I skate back to the red line. “You’re not on my line.”
“There are no lines,” I snap at him, taking my spot at center ice. “She’s just randomly pulling names out of a hat. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“Fletcher Sullivan.” She’s using that teacher voice. Everything in me is screaming to obey, to go back to the box like a good little boy.
“I want my goal.” Snarling, I set my legs for the face-off.