Chapter 13 Ellie
ELLIE
Still hyped from the fight, the rookies chatter excitedly, comparing battle scars. Granny Murray yanks the tampons out of Fletcher’s nose. He bites back a curse.
I peer at him, inspecting the handsome but bruising face. He glares up at me with slate-gray eyes. Fletch looks like he’s going to murder me.
“You still have all your teeth. That’s something…” More glaring.
“I’m trying to figure out how to work the X-ray machine so I can see if his ribs are shot or not,” Granny Murray announces.
“Do you need help with your skate?” I start to bend down to untie his shoes.
“I’m fine,” Fletcher hisses out and turns away from me.
He’s having big feelings. I step back to give him some space.
I open the cooler. “I just want to tell everyone what a fantastic job they did tonight. This is the most fire and passion I’ve seen from this team all season. You should be proud of yourselves—you left it all on the ice. And we’re going to win the next game.”
“Ren didn’t—he still has some teeth left,” Ziggy jokes.
“I got a real good dentures guy,” Granny Murray tells him. “I’ll hook you up.”
He wordlessly fist-bumps her.
“For an after-game snack, we have Lunchables,” I tell them.
The rookies cheer. The older guys smirk. I’ve interviewed them after losses before, and they weren’t ever this amped up. There was a lot of quiet dejection. But now they’re keyed up as I pass out the snacks, ripping off the plastic.
“Can we have pizza Lunchables next time?” one of the rookies begs.
“No, the nacho ones.”
“Those are only for winners,” Bramms drawls at them.
“We’re never going to win.” The rookies are sad.
“Don’t bet against hockey.”
Jovi piles up his Lunchables, making a megastack of crackers, the little pressed turkey rounds, and the squares of American cheese, and stuffs it all in his mouth and chews.
The Finn crushes up the container, dumps the entire contents into his mouth, and chews.
The rookies are very carefully assembling their crackers and taking pictures of each other eating them.
Fletcher slowly peels back the plastic. I itch to peel it off for him.
“He can do it himself,” I whisper.
Fletcher glares at me. He doesn’t eat the crackers—just the cheese and meat.
“Can I have your crackers?” The rookies crowd around him.
“No, I want them.”
“That’s Fletcher’s food.” I try to shoo them away.
Fletcher shifts. “Share it,” he says gruffly, shoving the container at them.
“So you’re staying on as the coach?” one of the rookies asks me.
“Of course she is,” Carlsson scoffs.
“Yay!” they cheer. “Can we make pregame meal requests?” They raise their hands. “I want pancakes.”
“Protein,” Fletcher barks.
“Err—”
Fletcher perks up when Dana Holbrook walks in.
“Now, that was a hockey game, boys!” She acts like she’s walking down a catwalk, not into a dank locker room.
“I’ve just gotten calls from several big advertising agencies.
Seems the brawls attracted a lot of eyeballs, and that means dollar signs.
Ellie”—she addresses me—“I gave them your and Harlow’s emails.
I know you have her helping you on the PR side.
Don’t sell them any advertising for less than ten million. ”
Fletcher is watching her like a starving man.
Of course he is. Dana is the perfect woman—tall, thin, athletic but still curvy. She could put any Sports Illustrated swimsuit model to shame.
Those hockey players like sex after a game. Dana’s not dumb—she knows it, and she’s scouting out her pick of the night like they’re her tasty prize in an advent calendar.
Well, let her have it.
Her eyes go to Fletcher. Dana’s gaze flicks up and down him.
One of the D-men opens his mouth, probably to make a lewd comment. Fletcher picks up the puck next to him on the bench and, without even looking, hurls it at the D-man, who yelps.
Dana smirks at Fletcher. They’re doing that silent-flirting thing that really attractive people do.
I busy myself packing up the cooler.
Bet she takes him home to her fancy-pants penthouse and they have S-E-X all night.
What do I care? I don’t want Fletcher Sullivan’s dick in my mouth.
The party is in full swing at my parents’ house when Granny Murray and I pull up. The house looks like a holiday postcard.
Normally, I love the holidays—love food and family and Christmas cheer. Now, with the snow and the dark, it all just feels cold and lonely. We lost. I lost. They’re all going to hate me.
“Should have taken one of them home.” Granny Murray fiddles with the radio.
“Who?”
“The hot men you have wandering around half naked—who do you think? Bed ’em and bag ’em.”
“Home where, Gran? Home here?” We pull up in front of the house.
“It’s an expression. I would have sprung for a hotel room for you. That place near the interstate lets you rent by the hour,” Granny Murray says.
“With what money? We lost—that means you lost. How much money did you bet on this team?” I ask desperately.
“It’s okay, girlie.” Gran lays on the horn.
“Gran—”
“I took out a payday loan to bet on your next game. You’re like me”—she mimes boxing—“you’re a competitor.”
“Gran, the next game is—oh my god, I don’t even know who we’re playing next.” I pull out my phone as Gran keeps honking the horn.
My cousins tumble out of the house, oversized Santa Claus wineglasses in hand, sweaters pulled around them as they race across the snowy yard.
“Gran, stop it,” Gracie scolds. “The neighbors are going to complain.”
“That cunt from the HOA? And no, I don’t mean ‘cunt’ in a complimentary way. Let me at her. Do you know she had the audacity to complain that Trina didn’t have the right color Christmas lights up? My own daughter. You need to take me to Costco so I can buy rainbow lights just to stick it to her.”
“Costco is closed. It’s late.” Though you wouldn’t know it from the celebratory party music thumping from my parents’ backyard.
“Where are the men?” Gran complains.
“Eating, drinking, scratching their balls,” Dakota says as she hands Gracie the box with the electric warmers.
I’m not usually the center of attention at family gatherings, unlike Dakota and Gracie. I’m not sure I want to walk into the Direwolves’ celebration party in a whole parade.
Gracie beams at me. “I just have to say, I thought your interview was hilarious. Everyone’s talking about it. They can’t wait to hear about your first game. And wasn’t that so nice of Ryder to come to your defense?”
“He’s a Boy Scout.” Yep. That Ryder. Dakota’s dating him, and he’s here at the house to celebrate his win.
Yay.
“I actually think I left one of my notebooks at the rink. Maybe I should go…”
Too late. Ryder’s coming out of the house like an eager golden retriever to help unload all of the hockey gear, coolers, and empty food trays out of the SUV.
Someone’s put a little Band-Aid on his face. I wince, thinking about Fletcher’s beat-up face.
Again, Ryder’s part of the cool upper echelons of my massive extended family. It’s, uh, very weird that we’re having this interaction.
“I hope you’re not too upset about the loss,” he says as he picks up a heavy box like it weighs nothing and heads to the house.
“We studied you guys’ tapes beforehand, you know, to get up to speed, and you guys played way better than I ever saw you play.
And you haven’t even been coach for what—twenty-four hours? ”
“The power of pussy,” Granny pipes up.
“I’m not sleeping with them!” I screech.
“Of course not. Who would think that?” Ryder’s brow furrows.
“Like, uh, everyone,” Dakota says as Gracie gets the door.
Ryder’s husky almost bowls us over. “Down, Dasher. He’s not trained.”
“Fletcher’s not trained,” Gracie snickers.
“She’s drunk, and she’s been watching that interview on repeat.” Dakota rolls her eyes.
The living room is decorated with streamers and signs proclaiming “Congratulations on your first NHL goal, Adam and Jace” in big sparkly letters.
Someone has added with a Sharpie, “and game, Ellie.”
Holiday music thumps. I keep to the wall, expecting my family to crowd around Ryder to talk hockey.
Except they ignore him and bum-rush me. Ryder’s eyes crinkle as he takes the box I’m carrying. All the men in my family crowd around me and loudly and drunkenly give me their opinions on how I need to coach the team.
“You gotta trade Zayne Murphy,” Adam insists. He’s got a bandage on his neck from the big fight and is clutching his game-day puck.
“She can’t trade him—he’s family,” my uncle slurs.
“He’s not family.” His wife swats him.
“No, no, no,” my cousin Nico tells me, holding out his phone. “You see this? This is the play that won Boston the game in ’06. That’s the drill you need to run.”
“Bag skates.” A great-uncle raises his glass. “When I was in the league, they had us run bag skates from noon till dusk.”
“Actually, bag skates aren’t as good for cardio or strength training as—”
Another uncle cuts me off. “Now, I’m gonna give you some advice.” He drapes an arm around me, beer in hand. “This is the line that you need. Okay, listen, write this down: Fletcher on center, that new rookie—what’s his name—Genovia…”
“You’re thinking of Princess Diaries.”
“Whatever his name is.” My uncle leans on me. “Winger. Put the Finnish boy on defense.”
“He’s better on forward. I’m actually thinking about building another line around him as center.”
“No, no, no. I know hockey, and I’m telling you—”
“Back, back!” Granny Murray hollers. “Blowhards!”
“Here’s what you need to do,” Dakota says loudly as she steals food off her sister’s plate. “You need to do something about Fletcher. He almost killed Ryder.”
“He wasn’t anywhere near Ryder,” I argue with my cousin.
“You all aren’t asking the right questions,” Aunt Babs insists. “I want to know how big their dicks are.”
“I am not looking at their private parts.”
“This is why you don’t have any grandchildren,” Aunt Babs tells my mom. “This is why.”
“You should have invited the boys to the party.” My mom clucks her tongue at me.
“I’m not inviting the Rhode Islanders to a party”—I point to the yellow-and-black sign—“celebrating the people who just beat them.”
“It wasn’t a beating—it was a massacre.” Jace smirks, tossing his puck in the air.
“Just brutal.”
“Best game ever.”
“And we got in a fight.”
“You barely fought,” Angie scoffs.
“Are you a virgin?” my cousin Violet demands.
“No, I walked in on her and Gabe from two doors down once,” Maxie says, rolling her eyes as she selects a piece of turkey from the carcass on the table for her sandwich. “She’s not a virgin, but she was definitely faking that orgasm.”
“Then set me up with one of them,” Violet begs.
“Set me up with Zayne—he has money.” Her sister giggles.
That sets off the men, who begin another ill-informed argument about the salary cap and how much of it is being spent on Zayne. A noisy argument breaks out in the living room.
I finally escape to the kitchen. My dad is in front of the stove, stoically checking the temperature of a ham warming up in the oven. Gracie’s fiancé, Hudson, leans against the fridge.
I don’t mind Hudson. He minds his own business.
Several drooly pugs snuffle at his feet.
“You get another dog?” I joke as he moves aside so I can grab some eggnog.
He sighs loudly.
“Maybe Santa will bring you a German shepherd in your stocking this Christmas Eve,” I joke.
“He’s only getting coal,” Gracie snickers at him.
“Maybe if you put a spiked collar on Pugnog he’d be a little more GSD-like.
Hey.” I pause. “You were in the military, right? I have this player, Fletcher. He’s really difficult to handle.
” Hudson doesn’t seem to like that we’re having this conversation.
“I just need tips on how to—control him? Motivate him.”
Hudson waits a beat then shrugs. “A Taser.”
“I believe he’s got the potential to be the best player on the team.”
“Hmm,” Hudson grunts.
“Not that it’s saying much,” I continue to ramble.
“He just doesn’t believe he can do it. It’s like when you have really little kids and their parents insist on dressing them and tying their shoes and feeding them.
They’re physically capable of doing it—they just need someone to believe in them and tell them that of course they can.
Don’t make a big deal about it. Just do it and let’s go outside. ”
“I have a piece of advice for you.” Hudson rolls his shoulders.
“Here we go,” Gracie says, sprinkling cheese on a dish of pasta.
“Mine’s actually good advice,” Hudson argues. He reaches into his coat pocket and hands me a pair of handcuffs. “Lock Zayne Murphy in his hotel room before the next game, and clear out the minibar.”
I take the handcuffs. “That’s actually pretty good advice.”
“You can ask Gracie for a handcuff key if you need it.” The sexual energy just wafts off of him. You could blow up a house with him. He has eyes only for Gracie, of course.
He looks down at my dad, who’s fussing with the oven. “That ham is overcooked,” he states.
Nate sets it down hard on a trivet. “The oven’s free, Gracie.”
“Thanks, Uncle Nate.”
Hudson wordlessly picks up the ham to follow Gracie into the dining room.
“So…” I wash my hands at the sink. “Crazy game. Adam and Jace got some sweet goals, didn’t they?”
“I saw that interview.”
“Yeah, they ambushed me a little bit.” I dry my hands on the kitchen towel hand-embroidered with Rudolphs I made for my mom one year.
My dad takes a deep breath. “You need to take this seriously. Coaching at the NHL level—there are men who dedicate their entire lives to being where you are. Everyone wants to see you fail.”
“I can’t just quit now, Dad. We have to play”—Gulp—“Seattle next. I can’t leave my guys out to dry.”
Nate sags. “You’re going to get crucified.” He looks sick. He grabs my shoulders. “Just promise me,” he begs me, “please don’t sleep with one of the players.”
“Dad!”
“Just promise me.”
I think of Fletcher—of the way his hair curls over his forehead, the chiseled abs, that mouth… that mouth twisting into a sneer and spitting out a snide comment. “Don’t worry. Never going to happen.”