“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?
32
FLETCHER
Idon’t know what I’m doing back at the rink.
The security guard gives me a weird look then decides that it’s not his business.
I push through the heavy doors and breathe in the familiar smell of the ice mixed with sweaty hockey gear—that sharp, clean cold cuts through with the musk of a thousand practices and games. It’s a smell that’s been burned into my memory since I was seven years old, wearing skates that were two sizes too big because that’s what we could afford.
I lace up slowly, each eyelet a small ritual, a meditation I’ve performed thousands of times before. Now for the last time.
I don’t put on my gear—just drift into the center of the ice, look up at the rafters of the brand-new stadium where, for a brief moment in time, I thought I might have my flag up there.
I’ve watched those videos a hundred times—NHL players hoisting the Stanley Cup, tears streaming down their faces, pure joy radiating from every pore. And in every single one of those videos, there’s someone next to them. A wife, a girlfriend, someone who matters more than the trophy itself. Someone to share the moment that makes all the pain worth it.
I can’t imagine doing any of that without Ellie. She must hate me. No, scratch that—she does hate me. I basically told her she didn’t deserve to be here, which is the furthest thing from the truth. She deserves to be here in the NHL, more than anyone. More than me, certainly.
“What are you still doing here?” Hudson’s voice booms across the ice.
“Just can’t quit hockey,” I say, not bothering to skate over. My voice carries in the empty arena.
“You don’t have a job.”
“I know.”
Hudson studies me for a long moment. “You’re passable at this one, though. Not great but passable. I always need workers who understand how to infiltrate, how to get information.” He jerks his chin at me. “I need to send someone to the Midwest—pays good, if you’re interested.”
“I can’t leave my team,” I say, though even as the words leave my mouth, they sound hollow.
Hudson laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “The team’s not going to be there after Christmas, so whatever. Suit yourself.”
My blood turns to ice water. “What?”
“Rumor has it Dana’s selling the team. They’re moving to the West Coast.”
The words hit harder than taking a shoulder to the head.
