Chapter 21
ELLIE
“Do I get a thank-you or what?” Harlowe preens as we walk through the Costco toy aisle.
“Don’t you think you should wait until we win a couple more games?”
“No, because what if you don’t? We need to ink these deals while we still can. If Tangerine wants to design a pink purse in your honor, who are we to say no? Also,” she adds, “Drew Barrymore wants you on the show.”
“I feel bad you’re taking on so many of my PR duties,” I worry. “I should take them back.”
“No way.” Harlowe shoves me. “You know how much free swag people are sending me? I got the new limited-edition Mariah Carey vinyl. There’s a kitchen set from Platinum Provisions—the pink one that they sent me to put in our PR—and Bath and Body Works is talking about hockey-themed candles.
Ooh, we need to make one that smells like Fletcher. ”
“No one wants that,” I say hastily. “I don’t know how you could make a candle smell like sweaty male hockey player.”
“Yeah, maybe that is gross.”
“I mean, it’s not supergross, just, like, musky, like truffles or something. Aren’t those supposed to smell like that?” I ramble. “Like, sort of animalistic smelling. I mean, I’d take a candle that smelled like that. Do you think that Cookie will like stuffed animals?”
Harlowe opens her mouth then closes it. “Oh my god.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Probably should do some Legos.” I scoop some smaller boxes into the cart.
“Friends are supposed to tell each other everything.”
“I don’t know what else there is to say… Do you mean about my dad?”
“Screw your dad. He’s jelly of your success.” Harlowe snatches the Marvel action figure out of my hand, throws it into the cart, and grabs my shoulders.
“You slept with him.”
“Uh, no I didn’t. Who? What? You roomed with me. I didn’t bring anyone back to our room.”
Harlowe scoffs. “I don’t know, maybe you did it in the locker room.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Fletcher.” She’s on her phone. “I should have known by the way he was looking at you after the match.”
“After the—you’re delusional!”
Harlowe sticks her phone in my face.
“Besides, I told you he doesn’t want me. He wants Dana.”
“Dana’s a goddess among men. She’s not messing up her blowout for a man who doesn’t even own his own car.”
“I think he was just—” I think back to last night, the way Fletcher leaned in, his breath cool against my mouth, the silvery eyes almost blue in the pulsing light from the club. “He was drunk. He didn’t want me.”
“Girl, he absolutely would have had a celebratory fuck in the booth in front of everyone with you. Even in that pink suit.”
“I’m burning that suit.”
“You’ll make Aunt Trina cry.”
“I’m not—” I add a stack of vinyl hockey-themed stickers to the cart. “I’m not, like, hockey-girlfriend material.”
“Well yeah, you haven’t maxed out your credit card on boob implants.”
“Also, why are we even having this conversation? I can’t be lusting after one of my players. I promised my dad.”
“Uh, I’m sorry.” Harlowe rolls her eyes. “I know our entire family is like intermarried and extremely enmeshed, but your dad and you had a convo about you sleeping with the players?”
“He’s very concerned. It could affect his job.”
“If you getting your pussy slammed is going to get him fired, he needs to get a new job. It’s the holidays. He could walk into the Christmas market and get a job.” She smirks. “At least if your dad finds a new coach, you can freely fuck Fletcher to your pussy’s content.”
“Ew. Don’t ever say those words.”
“You have a discontented cunt.”
I clap my hands over my ears. “Not listening! I’m not listening!”
Before we start practice, I rock slightly on my skates as I hold the oversized blue bag with glittered stars hot-glued on it. My mom and I spent all afternoon making it.
“I just want to give ourselves a big round of applause. Each and every one of you gets a sticker.” I hold out the sheet. “Don’t leave these on your shirts, because they get ruined in the washing machine. You can put them on your face.”
“Can I have the net?” Jovi asks excitedly when I show him the sticker options.
“How come Cookie gets a prize?” one of the rookies whines.
“Anyone who scored can get a prize.”
“Murph set up assists. Can he have a prize?”
“I’ll defer my prize to the group.” Zayne smiles indulgently at the players.
“You can have an extra sticker. How’s that?” I offer.
He tilts his head down so I can stick it right on his chin.
“What about Ren? We would have lost without him,” Carlsson says.
I wrap my arms around the goalie’s neck and pat his helmet. “Seriously, Ren, fantastic goaltending. We wouldn’t have won without you. Ren can get a prize, too, out of the surprise bag. And Ren”—I pull off a new sheet of stickers—“also gets a whole sheet to himself.”
“As long as you keep me out of prison, darling,” he says, accepting the stickers and pasting them on his helmet, “you’re doing right by me.”
“Carlsson, with an amazing goal in first period.” I wave him up. The big man digs around in the bag and comes out with a stuffed rabbit wearing a Christmas hat.
“Heikkil?inen!” The blond man has a big grin on his face as he skates up. “Coming in with that beauty of a goal in second period!”
“Lego!” he announces, pulling out the small Santa’s sleigh kit.
“What?” Carlsson complains. “I didn’t know there were Legos in there. I want a do-over.”
“No do-overs,” Fletcher announces as Cookie skates up and practically sticks his whole body into the bag.
“Seriously?” Carlsson demands.
The Finn says something snarky in Scandinavian. Carlsson doesn’t understand it, but he knows it’s not very nice, and he lunges at Heikkil?inen.
“Boys! Carlsson, you can have a do-over.”
“Legos!” Cookie surfaces with a Santa’s workshop kit.
Jonesy raises his hand. “Do you have any hockey kits in there?”
“Why do you care? You’re not getting anything out of the surprise bag,” Bramms shoots at him.
“There’s always next game.” Ziggy sighs.
“Can I have your prize?” Jonesy asks Zayne.
“Fuck no,” Ren says, skating up, stick in hand. “He turned over a puck in front of my net, and they almost scored. You need to have like the opposite of a surprise bag, Ellie. Like, you need a punishment bag that has roach traps and rat poison in it.”
“You didn’t want Legos?” Bramms asks Ren when he pulls out a demented-looking Santa toy.
“You can go again,” I offer.
“You kidding me?” He sets his prize on the ice and pushes a button.
“You can’t bring that thing back to the house,” Fletcher complains as the Santa sings a filthy version of “Dashing Through the Snow” while dancing on his head.
Ren smirks. “This is what Christmas is all about. Hockey, cookies, fucking, and Santa Claus.”
“Good practice,” I call to the players as they skate toward the locker rooms.
“Will the surprise bag be here next game?” Cookie asks me anxiously.
“God yes, please.” Fletcher skates past me.
“And you get a prize for every goal?” Cookie perks up.
“Oh yeah, no limits,” I promise.
“Will there be Legos? Will there be hockey Lego sets?”
“Yes.” Even if I have to fight a bunch of moms at the toy store for them, I will buy those toys to get goals out of Cookie.
“Okay!” Cookie says brightly.
“So does that mean you’re playing next game?”
Cookie nods happily and looks down at his toy, pleased. The guys all whoop and pat him on the head and back as they head to the locker room singing “We Are the Champions.”
“I like that second-to-last play we ran,” Fletcher tells me, skating with me as I pick up the cones. He scoops up several of them easily, skating backward. “It gives Cookie a path to the net. I think we need more plays like that. You cracked the code on him.”
“Bribe him with toys.” I laugh.
“Hey. Men are simple creatures.” He grins.
“Yeah, I should have just bought all Legos instead of so many stuffies.”
“You buy these yourself?” Fletcher gives me an odd look.
“I mean, yeah? I always buy my kids prizes and stuff. I use my mom’s Costco membership. You trying to exchange your prize?” I ask him. “You didn’t get a Lego set.”
“I actually don’t want a surprise bag treat.” He skates over to me.
“Oh,” I squeak. He’s so tall and huge in the oversized padding. “You played really well. You should get something.”
He drops the cones he’s carrying. They scatter at our feet.
“Maybe you want to select the walk-on music for the game? Maybe not Barbie, but dealer’s choice.”
He takes off the helmet. His black hair is plastered to his sweaty forehead. “I’ll take that, but I scored two points, so I think I get two prizes.”
“What do you want for your second prize?”
His rough glove comes up to cup the back of my head. “This.”
The first touch of his mouth is sharp, like blades on fresh ice.
He completely envelops me as he tips my head back so he can kiss me deep, kiss me like he owns me.
He kisses like he skates—powerful, sure, dominant.
I drag my fingers through his wet hair as I cling to him, his tongue licking into my mouth like the soul-stealing cold of the first breath of winter air.
I want to crawl under all the padding, rake my nails over the washboard abs hidden by the jersey.
Then he pulls back, just a breath, still close enough that I can count the flecks of steel in his eyes.
“Shit.” I gasp. “Maybe I should start sleeping with my players if it’ll make them win games.”
“Candy Cane, you let me fuck you, and I’ll win you a Stanley Cup.”