The locker room doesn’t seem as depressed as I thought it would be.
“One pretzel,” Ellie is saying. “Take one pretzel. Make sure everyone else gets one first before you have seconds, Jovi.”
I just stare at her, can’t believe she’s there—that there’s not some bald-headed, beer-gutted coach coming in with bluster and incompetence.
I want to kiss her in front of everyone. Not sure how that’s going to go over. Instead, I settle for standing in the doorway, drinking in the sight of her.
“Fletcher!”
“Aw, I wanted his pretzel.”
“Fletch!” Bramms jumps on me as the rest of the team crowds around, slapping my back, ruffling my hair.
“The prodigal son has returned,” Ren drawls. “It better not be to eat up all the food.”
I snatch the pretzel out of his mouth and take a bite. Then I sit under my name, still painted on the bench.
Ellie clasps her hands behind her back then crosses them. “What are you doing here?”
“Yes, what are you doing here, Fletch?” Carlsson demands.
“You’re my team,” I tell them simply as Zayne sits down next to me. “We’re about to play hockey in the NHL. Where else would I be?”
“Hell yeah!” they whoop.
“Fletcher Sullivan.” The rookies huddle behind Ren in his bulky goalie gear as Dana, in impossibly high heels and a skinny pencil skirt, saunters into the locker room like she owns it—which she does, although not for long.
“Fletcher’s playing,” Ellie tells her defiantly, stepping in front of me. “We need him to win.”
“Fine,” Dana says after a moment, staring down at Ellie. “But I’m not paying you to be here, Sullivan.”
“That’s fine. I’d lose with these guys for free.”
Dana’s perfectly arched eyebrows slant. “You better not be losing. Those idiotic Svensson brothers think they can back me into a corner, think they can make me look weak.”
“Ma’am”—Ren takes off his goalie helmet—“I don’t believe any man of average intelligence would ever make that mistake.”
“Well, I think they might make it, but they’d only make it once,” I say.
Dana smirks. “I’m not going down without a fight. But I’m not spending money to do it,” she warns. “Yes, I was going to take the massive tax write-off on this team. But you can obviously play, so I’m willing to pivot if it makes me a profit. But you have to win. I want results in this game. Win, or else I’m selling this team tonight.”
Her phone rings. “Belle, you better tell your husband to tell his brother to fuck off,” we hear her snap as the door slams behind her.
I look at the team. My team.
“We play the Eastern Conference champs from last year,” Carlsson says quietly.
“We’re going to get slaughtered,” Bramms adds.
“No, we won’t,” I say automatically.
The rookies don’t seem convinced. Cookie looks like he’s about to hurl.
I pick up my stick and throw it against a wall, making it crack. Bramms jumps. Several rookies yelp. The Finn swears in Scandinavian.
“The fuck we are,” I snarl at them. “We beat last year’s Stanley Cup champs. That means we’re the best goddamnhockey team in the league. We came from nothing, and we blew through the Orcas, the Mammoths, and now we’re going to slaughter the Boston Harbor Hawks. And I’m sending Eddie to the hospital while I’m at it.” My eyes lock with Ellie’s wide ones. “The stadium is packed full of people waiting for a miracle, and we’re going to give them one. Cookie,” I address him, “I need you to play tonight.”
“The whole game?” he squawks.
