Chapter 18 Fletcher #2
I look back at Ellie. She’s resting her arms on the Finn’s helmet, craning over our heads to see the ice. Like he’s her boyfriend or something. I feel the frown crease my forehead as I see the tiniest of twitches at the corner of the Finn’s mouth.
I turn around, kick Jovi to scoot over, grab Ellie by the waist, and set her in her pink shoes on the bench.
I get one pale-eyebrow raise from the Finn.
Chewing on my mouthguard so I don’t punch him in the face because we actually, you know, need him to win, I face back to the ice, trying not to think about Ellie right behind me—like I could literally just turn around and grab the back of her legs and…
Fuck. The Orcas are brutal. One defender slams into Carlsson as he’s cutting across the ice. My teammate goes down, sliding across the ice as the Orcas take the puck.
The ref waves his arms.
“Clean hit? No fucking way,” I scream at the ref. “Are you gonna do your goddamn job?” The ref turns to scowl in my direction. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, you fucking ass—mhmff.”
Ellie’s got her arm wrapped around my neck, hand covering my mouth.
The ref skates over, hand up like he’s about to give us a penalty. That’s the last thing we need—to be down a man.
“We didn’t say anything,” she says cheerfully to the ref, leaning over to talk to him.
The fucking guy is old enough to be her dad, and he’s clearly trying to pretend like he’s not stealing a peek down the plunging neckline of the pink suit jacket.
I lunge, and the ref skitters back. “You fucking—”
Ellie’s hand is back on my mouth; her knees dig into my back as she yanks me backward.
“We’re good here. Everything is fine. You’re doing an awesome job!
No,” she scolds me, wagging a finger in my face after the ref skates away.
“We cannot afford to have you thrown out of the game. If I put you back in, can you behave?”
“No.” I jump over the boards onto the ice, Zayne behind me.
The Orcas chip away at us; we’re on the defensive. The only reason that we’re not down by five already is because of Ren.
“I hope they don’t test for Pixy Stix,” Jonesy jokes.
The Orcas get shot after shot on goal. Our defense hasn’t completely collapsed—thank God Bramms is digging in, trying to get the puck up. The Orcas are good, though—big and fast. And they beat us back, keeping the puck longer and longer in our zone each time we lose possession, until—
“GOAL!” the horn blares through the stadium.
First period isn’t great, but it also somehow doesn’t completely suck. Carlsson got another goal with a sick assist from Zayne, but so did the Orcas.
Second period, though?
“If you don’t keep them goddamn pucks away from my net,” Ren hisses at me through his missing teeth, “I’mma skin you, boy. You hear me?”
I incline my chin to him, and he skates off, still somehow graceful despite the goalie pads.
“You see his skates?” Zayne says to me as he skates around, warming up before the period starts.
“They’re like ours. They’re not goalie skates.
That’s why he’s so good against the Orcas.
They aren’t expecting him to move like that, that fast, you know?
” Zayne taps my helmet with his stick then leans over for the face-off.
The whistle blows. Zayne sends the puck straight to my tape… and that’s the last good thing that happens all period.
We dig in.
I don’t want to lose. It’s not that I want to win—I just don’t want to lose. I’m sick of fucking losing.
I break through the Orcas players, try to find Jonesy, don’t find him, see the Finn.
Emil cuts in front of my pass. Zayne goes after him, but he’s just a hair too slow.
I cut in, slam into Emil—it’s like running into a brick wall—collect the puck, trying not to get rattled, trying to get it up, trying to keep it away from Ren in the net.
Ellie keeps switching the lines, trying to keep us fresh.
It’s not enough. Seattle breaks through all of them, crowds around the net, slashing, attacking over and over until the puck is in the net and the goal horn is blaring and Ren’s screaming at me, sounding like a crazed Baptist preacher as he condemns me to hell.
Third period. We’re down by two.
“We have a goal,” I remind myself. “It can be done. We can score.” I hold onto that last shred of hope like a drowning man.
The Orcas look like they’ve all been huffing crazy Ren’s Pixy dust. The Rhode Islanders? We’re all tired.
Everyone except for Cookie, who hasn’t fucking played.
“She gonna put him in?” Bramms hisses as we do a quick turn around the ice. “What the hell were all those therapy toys for?”
“At least they’re not throwing feminine hygiene products anymore.”
Jovi’s got a cut under his eye that’s been patched with a Hello Kitty Band-Aid from Ellie’s purse.
I can’t lose. I cannot lose.
We’re losing, though. Seattle scores a goal then another. Ren’s cursing at me with threats of the rapture as we line up for face-off.
When the Orcas winger hurtles down the ice to our collapsed defense, Ren loses it, rushing out to meet him, jamming his stick between his legs.
The Orcas winger goes sprawling; Ren bats the puck to me with the huge goalie stick.
Against all odds, I get it, take it up the ice, and pass to Jovi, who passes to Zayne.
The Orcas defender is on him. “He’s gonna lose it, he’s gonna lose it…” I mutter.
But Murphy’s Law just draws in the defender, pivots, and sends me a blind backhand pass, and I send it—right into the corner of the net.
“Goal!” Jovi’s screaming, jumping on me. “We’re only down by two,” he hoots.
I can’t bask in the glory of my first NHL goal, though. Have to focus. The Orcas aren’t going to let it be down by one. They send out their first line—their best players.
Zayne’s locked in, but he’s only one guy. And we just don’t have the depth of talent the Orcas have.
We’re not good enough. I’m not good enough.
I desperately chase down the puck, my lungs burning, ears ringing from Ren’s rage-filled cursing.
What the hell is in those Pixy Stix? I wonder, thoughts almost hysterical as the Orcas get another shot, only to have the puck glance off the metal bar of the net.
“Thank you, baby.” Ren kisses the net.
He turns to me. “Fuck you,” he hisses.
Ellie blows her whistle and signals to the ref. TIME-OUT blazes across the screen.
“The hell?” Bramms narrows his eyes. “Who calls a time-out? No one ever uses their time-outs.”
There’s confused murmurs from the crowd, and over in one corner of the stadium behind the glass, I can see incredulous broadcasters making jokes about needing a bathroom break.
I gulp down water as Ellie stands on the bench next to a very well-rested Cookie to address us.
“We have seven minutes left,” she says calmly. “You all can play hockey. You scored two goals. We need two more to tie the game and make it to overtime.”
“Might as well ask us to fly to the moon.” I wipe at my face.
“Zayne, do you have a feel for the game? Got your sea legs back?” Ellie says brightly as she holds up her clipboard.
“Offense,” she directs. “We need full offense. Defenders, I need you guys to stay up. These are the plays we want to run. Zayne, you’re the guy who’s going to be on the lookout to set these up.
Forget about everything that just happened.
This is a brand-new seven minutes. You have all the time in the world.
Don’t freak out. It’s hockey—it’s not nuclear engineering. Don’t overthink it.”
“Easy to say when you don’t have the Stanley Cup champions baying for your blood.”
The time-out helped reset the energy in the game. But it’s not quite enough. We still can’t get the puck up. Still can’t get it to the net, still can’t keep from losing to the Orcas.
The clock ticks down as once again, I chase an Orcas player down the ice.
He bum-rushes Ren, who doesn’t back down or give any ground—just screams as the Orcas player crashes into him, rolling on the goalie’s head. Bramms slams into the Orcas player, punching him with that big right hook.
“Power play,” Jovi says as we ready.
Except the ref doesn’t call it.
Carlsson is scuffling with another Orcas defender, and the ref pushes them apart and gives my teammate a warning. Ren’s shaking out his arm, rolling his neck, and hauling himself up.
“You motherfucker!” Ellie screams at the ref. “That’s a penalty! That’s a roughing penalty! Do not ignore me! I know you can hear me!”
She’s red-faced, and her hair’s messy. She pulls off her headband and throws it on the ice.
“Shit.” I rush over and grab her just as she’s about to jump over the boards and attack the ref.
“Put me down, Fletcher! I’m going to rip his face off!” I dump the angry girl into the box and toss her headband in after her.
Ren skates over, rubbing his shoulder to get checked out while the Orcas players skate around on the ice, laughing at the replay of Ellie trying to jump onto the ice looping over and over on the jumbotrons above.
“I’m fine.” Ren waves us away.
“We need you for the game next week.” Ellie sounds furious as she runs her hands all over Ren’s shoulder.
He takes a swig from a bottle of what smells like kerosene that her granny gives him.
“Got some pills too,” the old woman offers. “If you want to play roulette. Why not? Live a little.”
He shrugs and takes two from her palm.
“We’re not putting you back in.” Ellie says angrily.
“Are you putting in Braxton?” I ask.
We look at the kid eating a granola bar and scrolling on his phone at the other end of the bench.
“We have four minutes, and we need two goals to make it to overtime,” she says. “We’re not putting a goalie in.”
“So a Hail Mary.” I blink.
“Pulling the goalie is a legitimate strategy.”
“Four minutes, boys,” Zayne says. “A lot can happen in four minutes.”
The Orcas see the six of us forwards on the ice and Ren sitting on the bench. They dump in all their defenders. It’s going to be a bloodbath.
“Swan Lake,” Jovi says, calling one of the plays we looked at last night.