“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.
