Chapter 29 Ellie
ELLIE
“Iheard him,” I hiss to Harlowe as we scurry into the stadium for the early-morning practice—way too early.
“He said to Dana Holbrook, ‘I want to know what it’s like to fuck a billion dollars.’” I blink back tears.
“After you guys had hot, sweaty, nasty postgame sex in your office.”
“Yeah, guess that didn’t mean anything to him.” I stare down at the ice.
“He’s a hockey player—they’re fuckboys,” Harlowe tells me gently. “You can’t get attached to them. Did he say he loved you, or was he talking about relationships or anything?”
“No.” I sniffle. “And it’s not like we could even…” I make a helpless gesture. “I told him I can’t sleep with players. I told him it was affecting his game,” I admit.
Harlowe waits a bit. “Yikes.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “You think I blew it?”
“Well, now we know why he was chatting up Dana. He was trying to make you jealous.”
“I don’t know.”
Harlowe snorts. “Have you seen all the puck bunnies hanging around the stadium ever since we started winning? He could have a new one every night. But he’s flirting with Dana because she’s unobtainable.”
“Or he just hates me.” I feel miserable, even though Fletcher moving on is the best possible outcome.
“Be an adult and talk to Fletcher,” Harlowe coaxes me. “Tell him you want to be exclusive.”
“I can’t be in a public relationship with him. I mean, my dad would have a fit.”
“Your dad’s not the one with the ticking biological clock and overbearing grandbaby-hungry mother.”
“I can’t think about relationships. My life is already screwed up enough.” I wipe my eyes and fan my face. “I need to keep it together—we have a big game tonight. It’s against the Montreal Vortex. They’re a good team. Not as good as the Direwolves, but good.”
“I think the Rhode Islanders can take them.”
I’m not so sure. The team seems off at practice. I made everyone clear out of the party early, but maybe I shouldn’t have thrown it at all, I worry. It’s just that Zayne had scheduled it before we were contenders, and it seemed like punishment to cancel it.
It seems like maybe it wasn’t just the party, though. Something shifted in the team’s cohesiveness.
They’re a step behind on the drills. Fletcher snaps at everyone. Zayne seems out of it. Eddie straight up didn’t even show up. Cookie misses the net on a drill, which triggers a panic attack, and I was only able to calm him down enough for Zayne to bundle him off home.
Fletcher doesn’t try to sneak a kiss or anything after practice—just stomps to the locker room and throws on his clothes. He doesn’t even look like he showered when he heads past me, barely acknowledging me.
Probably going to see Dana.
Harlowe’s wrong. Why wouldn’t Fletcher want to be with the team’s owner instead of the temporary coach who can’t manage to keep any sort of winning streak going?
I notice that his eyes do drift to the puck bunny who managed to sneak past the lackluster stadium security. I feel sick. None of those girls has a hockey-player body.
“Back, back!” Granny Murray rushes out with a broom. “Fifty bucks to touch our star centerman! No free lookie-loos!”
I’m not confident about the game. It’s probably better that Fletcher doesn’t get handsy in my office. I need to focus on how we’re going to beat the Montreal Vortex.
Practice was horrible. “It’s because they’re all hungover,” I lie to myself as I suck down my lukewarm coffee in my office. “Nothing’s wrong with the team.”
I have a pounding headache myself, after all, that has nothing to do with my heartbreak over Fletcher.
Heartbreak? Who’s heartbroken? I’m young—I can have a hookup without getting emotionally attached.
I shake my head. My mom has a hangover cure recipe. I need to go shopping. I’ll make a list of the ingredients.
Someone raps on the door.
“Fletcher?” I flinch as my dad opens the door.
He seems a little taken aback at my reaction. “Ellie? I, uh, well, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sure, Dad, yeah, have a seat.” I gesture to the seat that is right next to the trash can that has a freaking condom in it.
Ugh, why did they fire the janitorial staff?
Frick. I try very hard not to look at the trash can, not to draw any sort of attention to it, as I slowly sneak my foot out from under the desk, all while I lock eye contact with my father.
“I…” he stammers. “Well, I’ve been asking around, and I think we found someone who wants to take over the coaching job here. With the way the team performed the last couple of games, seems like there’s some renewed interest.”
“Great, so Ellie pulls the team from the brink of disaster, and some idiot with a small penis and a bald head gets to come in and steal all her credit?” Granny Murray says as she slams the door open.
My dad cringes.
“I knew you were up to no good, Nathan!” Granny Murray hollers at him. “I knew as soon as I saw you walk in the building—that’s a shiftless male if I ever saw one.”
“I’m trying to look out for her!” my dad cries. “Ellie, people think you’re sleeping with the players. You should see all the horrible things people are writing about you online. Your mom’s so upset she cries every night.”
“Lies!” Granny Murray thunders. “Trina is fighting the good fight online—this yellow-bellied turncoat is the one weeping in his pillow! Fucking pussy, man the hell up!”
“Mom’s arguing with people in the comments?” I groan. My headache is getting worse.
My dad grabs my hand. “This is why I didn’t want this for you, Ellie!”
“You tell whatever coach you scraped up that Ellie is going down with the ship!” Granny Murray rails.
“I don’t know, Gran. Maybe I should leave.
” It’s going to be awkward with Fletcher.
It already is awkward. And now the team is broken—I’m not sure why.
Maybe they’re getting horrible comments online too.
They had tampons thrown at them in Seattle, after all.
“Maybe it can’t hurt to see what a real coach could do. ”
“Exactly! It doesn’t hurt to just explore other options.” My dad raises his hand as Granny Murray hefts the hockey stick I keep in the corner of the office. “I’ll tell the NHL you’re open to stepping down.”
“Traitor!” Granny Murray hollers, berating my dad as he leaves.
“I’m just trying to help—”
The door slams. I sit there in silence, ears ringing, for a moment.
Give up coaching? It’s not like it was my life’s calling.
Besides, clearly, I’m not very good at it. I failed the test of not sleeping with a player. Also, isn’t that illegal? Probably would get me fired anyway, so maybe it’s better if I resign before I, too, am hauled away in handcuffs.
Or maybe I’m just a wuss. I don’t want to coach the rest of the season and watch Fletcher make bedroom eyes at Dana Holbrook or start sleeping with Dana Holbrook (if he hasn’t already—Shut up, brain!), or dating Dana Holbrook, or—Gulp—falling in love with her.
I will fresh hot coffee to appear in my mug as I grab my skates. Maybe shooting some pucks will help clear my head. I can test out some of the moves, too, for next practice. When I head down the dark hallway, I almost run into someone.
Cookie is standing outside the locker room, tears in his big brown eyes.
“Cookie! I thought Zayne took you home.”
“I forgot my hat.” His lower lip trembles.
“Oh, we’ll find it—let’s check the lost and found, okay?”
He shakes his head.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re leaving us?”