Chapter 18 Fletcher
FLETCHER
You’re not supposed to cross the center line during warm-ups. Guess the league doesn’t want people fighting. They apparently don’t have any rules about throwing things at people, however.
The first tube hits me in the back of the neck. Any lower, and I probably wouldn’t have felt it through the jersey.
“What the hell?” I turn to the rookies who are tossing pucks back and forth. “Did you hit me?”
Cookie points.
I stare at the ground then across the ice to the smirking Orcas player.
“Motherfucker.” I slap shot the wrapped tampon back across the ice toward them.
“Are you that worried about losing to a girl?” I snap at the alternate captain of the Orcas, Alexei Vidic, a big guy with a flat face and a buzz cut.
“Just thought you might need them when we bleed you out.” He gives me a lazy smile.
The other Orcas players snicker.
A wiry forward pitches a handful of more plastic tubes at the rookies; they patter onto the ice. The fans who have shown up early for warm-ups hoot and shout, jeering as the cameras zoom in on us. Several fans start throwing boxes of tampons onto the ice.
Ren, furious, sets his feet like he’s about to rush across to fight.
“Dude, just ignore them,” I hiss at our players and grab the back of Ren’s jersey. “Fuck these guys.”
“I’m gonna bash their heads in,” Ren spits.
“I don’t feel well,” one of the rookies croaks as more tampons rain down on us while the Orcas players chirp at us from the other side of the line.
I keep waiting for Zayne to do something—he’s the captain, goddamn it. He could at least cuss out Emil Maynard.
The Orcas captain, Zayne’s old rival, is cold and aloof as he warms up, puck handling over the logos under the ice even better than the day he came into the league at eighteen.
“I thought he’s supposed to be old,” Jovi whispers to me as we watch him. He’s like the Orcas’ namesake—apex predator, a silent, ancient killing machine.
“He’s like thirty-seven-year-old cognac, somehow even better than when he started.”
Zayne sucks in a breath as we watch Emil then lets it out. “He’s right. We’re fucked.”
“You have better hockey sense than him,” I say stubbornly, like I’m back in the schoolyard playing street hockey and defending my idol. “He’s a scorer. You’re a craftsman.”
A box bounces on Cookie’s helmet and busts open, raining more tampons down his jersey.
“Are you seriously letting this happen?” I skate over to one of the refs.
He sucks on his teeth. “Let what happen?”
An Orcas fan throws a huge box onto the ice, and it explodes, sending more tampons scattering. Cookie is hurriedly trying to sweep them all off our side of the ice.
The ref finally sighs. “You gotta have a thick skin in the NHL, son.”
Another box is badly thrown and bops one of the linesmen on the head. He turns and screams at one of the security guards, who scampers to berate the drunk fan.
The fan pumps a fist, and the Orcas players raise their sticks to him in a salute as he’s dragged away. Their alternate captain makes a vulgar gesture to me as his team skate like pros—like NHL players, like Stanley Cup champions—back to their tunnel.
I hate the Orcas team, I decide. Hate them more than my dad, more than Ellie, more than Hudson.
The rookies look rattled as we head back to the locker rooms, nervously kicking the snow off their skates, chewing on their mouthguards.
And here’s Ellie in the bright-pink suit. Her smile’s strained.
Someone asks from beside me, “Why does she even have to wear that?”
I jab Eddie with my stick, sitting there as Ellie grits out her toxic positivity. “Guess you heard the good news,” I say as she picks a tampon out of Cookie’s jersey.
“Sticks and stones,” Ellie singsongs. “They’re trying to get in your head.”
“And it’s working,” Eddie mutters.
“Just ignore them, and they’ll go away.”
“No, they won’t. We have to play them,” Ziggy complains.
I steal glances at her as I’m getting ready. She looks nervous, worried. Guilty. Sad. Scared.
I work my jaw.
“Zayne, you’ve been in the league a while. Do you have any words of wisdom and encouragement?” Ellie sounds desperate.
“Bend down and kiss your ass goodbye,” Eddie mumbles.
I growl at him. He gives me an ugly look.
Zayne stands up, rocking on his skates. “You know…” Zayne scratches under his helmet.
“I think we’ve got a great group here. And sure, the Orcas are the reigning champions, but don’t bet against hockey, right?
If we all work together, I think we can have a really good showing.
No one expects us to win, so we can just go out there and try our best, try some new moves.
Just don’t give up—even when we’re down.
No one dies from losing. We get paid either way. ”
There’s half-hearted clapping from Jonesy and a couple confused but enthusiastic rookies. Ren’s eyes shift behind his goalie mask.
It’s the opposite of inspiring. It’s lackluster, demoralizing.
Jovi looks like he wants to crawl under the bench and hide.
“Why do we have to play them?” one of the rookies asks in a small voice.
“Fuck this shit.” I stand up. “Ellie, get out.”
“What? Why? You can’t kick me out. We have to—”
I pick her up around the waist and throw her into the hallway.
“Out.” I slam the locker room door behind her and stare down my team.
“Now, you motherfuckers, listen to me. I am not losing to these fucking self-absorbed dicks. I don’t want to just—shut up, Eddie.
I don’t care if they have Emil Maynard on their team.
We have Zayne fucking Murphy, the greatest hockey player who ever lived, whose name is inscribed on the cup not one, not two, not even three, but six goddamn times. ”
I make a knife hand at Ren. “We have the craziest fucking goalie in the league. He’s not some pampered player whose parents bought him a spot, either—he’s a redneck from Mississippi.
You want to know how insane you have to be from Mississippi and play hockey?
And Cookie—” The little forward looks like he’s going to pass out.
“You were the number one draft pick. They called you the next Ryan West.” I get in his face.
“You will man the fuck up and get on the ice tonight and score a goal.”
His mouth drops open.
“I don’t want to hear shit from any of you about how we suck and we’re losers. I don’t care if we’re the worst fucking team in the league. We’re sitting at a bar in hell? Fine, then we’re dragging them all down with us.”
“Fuck yeah, let’s do this shit!” Jovi hollers as the players whoop.
Ren snorts a line of powder off his glove. “It’s caffeine pills and Pixy Stix, man.”
“Hell yeah, let’s fucking go!”
“No one saw that,” I threaten as Jovi bangs his helmet on Bramms’s.
“Go to the box,” I bark at Ellie as I brush past her like I’m going to war.
The Orcas aren’t done fucking with us, though. I can tell something’s wrong when the ice rink is washed in pink light as we step out. Then the first tinny notes echo around the stadium, followed by the “OoooOOOOHHH” of the crowd as they recognize the ’90s pop song.
“Are they playing the fucking Barbie song?” Ren snaps at me. Either it’s the caffeine powder or the pink light, but the goalie looks unhinged as he circles the ice.
Several drunk fans in the audience sing along. The camera pans to Ellie in the box with her pink suit as the music screeches, “I’m a Barbie giiirrrlll!”
It’s not even the Nicki Minaj rap version. I’m pissed as the pink lights pulse around. It’s the ’90s one—all bubblegum pop and techno consumerism.
The Orcas fans screech in laughter as we skate up to the blue line for the national anthem. I seethe as the Orcas players line up across from us. Vidic, the alternate captain, stands next to Emil, smirking at me.
“Let’s fuck him up, boss.” Jovi’s antsy next to me, like he’s just waiting for me to snap the leash so he can fly.
All through the national anthem, I’m fuming.
“Good luck, Barbie,” the Orcas players chirp at us.
“Let’s go, Barbie!”
The rage pulses behind my eyes. I want to beat someone with my hockey stick. I settle for trying to beat them at hockey.
It’s going to be an impossible task.
We lose the face-off. Well, Zayne loses the face-off to Maynard. The veteran player passes it to the alternate captain, and the Orcas are off, racing to the goal.
Bramms skates backward, keeping pace with their assistant captain, trying to throw him off his shot. The puck ricochets off Vidic’s stick, and the crowd roars as the first goal is scored and it’s not even five seconds… but it’s not a goal.
“Hell yeah, Mississippi!” Jovi whoops as Ren holds up his glove, the small black puck dark against the white.
It’s another face-off. Zayne digs in. He used to win face-offs, was the king of face-offs. Maybe still is—the way his eyes are sort of glazed, like they’re seeing everything at once.
He’s still got it! The kid in me whoops as he gets possession of the puck.
The puck goes straight to my stick; then I’m tear-assing down the ice like clockwork. I spin into one of the plays Ellie created, that we repeated in practice and analyzed in my hotel room last night. Bramms gets it, turns back to Zayne, over to me, to Jovi, to the Finn—into the net!
“Yes!” Jovi screams, throwing himself at me.
We jump on the Finn, hugging him, patting his head as he roars something in Scandinavian.
The Orcas are pissed. We scored against them early, too, made them look stupid, and they’re going to make us pay.
I’m breathing hard when Ellie changes out the lines. Two of the rookies are out there skating with Carlsson.
“You got a goal!” Ellie’s congratulating our line, patting us on the helmets. “Good job! I knew you could do it!” We bask in the praise.
Zayne’s locked in, though—barely acknowledges it as he watches the game from the bench.