Chapter 31 Ellie
ELLIE
“Inever should have taken that coaching job,” I sob to Harlowe. “My dad was right—I’m not an NHL coach.”
“You are technically, and you’re the only person who made that team win. And hey, who cares if you slept with Fletcher? You have to use all the tools available to you.” Harlowe pets my hair.
“I was so dumb. Fletcher was just sleeping with me so he could get close to Dana and expose her lies.”
“‘Lies’ feels like a strong word. I think she’s just doing capitalism with great hair.”
“She ruined the sanctity of an NHL team.”
“Okay, Ms. Sleeping With Her Own Players.”
“Ugh, not so loud.” My stuff clatters out of my hands onto the porch. I’m not ready to go in and face the disappointment of my parents yet.
“So what if your dad finds out?” Harlowe helps me pick up the sticks. “Look on the bright side—now that Fletcher’s not on the team, your dad can’t get mad at you for sleeping with a player.”
I call Fletcher again. He’s not answering his phone. I don’t even know why I’m calling him. Instead of his voicemail, now the phone screams that this number has been disconnected.
Someone pulls back the curtains from the living room. I hear excited cries of “There she is! She’s here! She’s back! Did she bring her boyfriend?”
On the street, cars are parking with more family members summoned by my life imploding.
“Ellie!” my aunt cries as she totters up the icy sidewalk on high heels. “Your mom says you’re moving to San Francisco!”
“I’m what?”
The front door flies open. My dad is furious. “It’s completely off the rails!”
“Now, Nate, come sit down. I made you some herbal tea,” my mom says soothingly.
“A disaster!” he hollers as his brothers haul him to the couch.
“This will be a good thing.” His sister pats his hand.
On the TV, a blond man with gray eyes and a very expensive suit is giving a press conference.
Fitzgerald Svensson. Obviously.
“As the owner of the Orcas team, I’m appalled that the NHL let this go on so long.
It’s devaluing the brand. Dana Holbrook should be in jail.
The Rhode Islanders team should be moved to San Francisco immediately.
And I believe the majority of the team owners will support me in this motion.
I’m open to any and all questions,” he says smugly.
“I’ll give my unasked-for hot-take opinions free of charge. ”
“Ellie’s not moving anywhere,” Nate tells my aunt. “We’re looking at a new coach.”
“Damn it, Nate, you can’t replace Ellie. She’s won two of her three games!” My uncle waves his beer bottle around.
“I lost the last game,” I remind them sadly.
“That wasn’t on you—those players are lazy.”
“Bag skates! You can’t be so soft on them, Ellie,” Uncle Bic slurs.
I’m so over the NHL, so over hockey. “Who are you looking at for the coaching position?” I blink back tears.
“Gordy McRae,” my cousin says acerbically.
All my male family members complain loudly.
“Terrible choice!”
“He’s a braggart!”
One of them throws his peppermint-bark popcorn at Dad.
“He’s a good coach,” Nate protests.
“Gordy?” my great-uncle booms. “You saw what he did with the Whalers—he just collected a paycheck and ran that team into the ground.”
“You’re stupid if you let the team hire Gordy,” another uncle tells Harlowe.
“She’s not in charge of hiring, Dad,” his daughter tells him as she videotapes the carnage.
“Who’s in charge of hiring? I need to speak with the manager.” My drunk cousin waves her wineglass around.
“Well, it’s not Nate.” His brothers snicker.
“Seriously, Dad, you want Gordy to be the coach?” I cross my arms. “I thought you were going to look at someone like Buzz Hanley on the Arctic Avengers minor-league team, or maybe Doug Rourke—he coaches at Boston University. He has a gentler coaching style. Cookie’s freaked out, and you can’t have someone force him onto the ice because he gets overwhelmed, not to mention he’s just too damn good for most of the team to play with him.
Bramms is the most offensive defenseman ever, but you have to have a strong D down low so you can take advantage of him, and none of these coaches are going to know that, and the team’s going to keep losing. ”
My dad looks at me strangely.
“And Fletcher… he’s…” My throat tightens. “Fletcher, he’s my centerman and… and…”
“I knew you were sleeping with that player!” Violet screeches as she and her sisters fly into the room.
“You did what?” Nate bellows, jumping up.
Granny Murray raises a hand. “I didn’t snitch!”
“Of course not—it’s all over the gossip sites.
” Bella grabs the remote and turns the channel to the entertainment news.
There’s my official Rhode Islanders corporate picture, where I look like I’m in a hostage situation, and Fletcher’s, who looks like a model posing for a mug shot, wearing his predatory I want to fuck you gaze with the slightly parted mouth.
“… in a relationship,” the entertainment host is saying.
I cover my eyes, peeking through my fingers at the horror on the screen.
“This news comes to us directly from Edward Lasky, one of the Rhode Islanders players. Eddie, could you tell us what happened?”
“Yeah, Fletcher was just some guy she brought in off the street. He lied about his stats, and that’s how he’s on the team. I should have been a starter, and she gave him preferential treatment.”
“He did score a lot of points,” one of the hosts says.
Eddie looks furious. “Because she was sleeping with him!”
“All I see is a queen motivating her knights.” Violet snaps her fingers.
My dad groans.
“Wait, Eddie’s been traded!” My eyes scan the headline crawling across the bottom of the screen.
“For a first-round draft pick.” My uncle whistles.
“How? Eddie’s not worth that.” I scrunch my nose.
“Well, it’s to Boston, so what do you expect?” one of my uncles says derisively.
“Now we’re down a player.”
“Call up Jack Malloy from the minors,” someone suggests.
“No!”
My cousins clamor around me. “No, call up—”
“We’ll call up Walt Stratton. I’ve been watching his tapes. I think he’d fit well with—I was going to say Fletcher, but he quit.”
“He quit?” My uncles are shocked.
“I have money on this game! You lost the last one—you need Fletcher!” Granny Murray hollers.
“You heard them,” I cry. “He lied!”
“So? He’s good, ain’t he?” a male family member says.
“Big fucker too,” a male cousin adds.
“Let’s turn it back to normal hockey TV before Nate strokes out,” a great-aunt says as she pulls out a Tupperware container to steal food.
My dad is laying ashen-faced on the floor, moaning, while his sister screams at him to “Get up, Nate! You’re such a little bitch—you always make everything about you, and now you’re making your daughter’s sex life about you!”
“Honestly, you should be happy. I know Trina was worried she’d live at home for the rest of her life,” his second cousin adds.
“I want my baby girl to stay here—ow!” my dad yelps when his sister kicks him.
“If you want to win that game, you better suck that man’s dick to make him come back,” Granny Murray states. “Francine, get your mitts off that alcohol—that is not a party favor.”
Fletcher. I need to find Fletcher. But how?