“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 predatoryI want to fuck yougaze 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.”
