“More than five minutes of it, yeah.”
“Um, okay?”
“All of you need to play.” I survey them. “We’re a team. We’ve done a lot of losing together. Now we’re going to do a lot of winning. I don’t care what it takes. Who’s ready to give the crowd a show?”
Carlsson blows out a breath. “Hell yeah. Let’s do it.”
“You damn better.” Ren slams his palms on his goalie pads, stands up, and points his stick threateningly at the players. “’Cause I’ll tell you one thing, as I live and breathe—I ain’t moving to California.”
“You better listen to him. He has a gun in the trunk of his car.” I smirk at the players.
“Someone get this man a jersey,” Bramms calls.
Granny Murray comes in with the burgundy-and-gray jersey with my name on the front and the number 25 on the back. She holds it up, grinning.
“What’s that?” I point to theCon the chest. “You’re the captain,” I tell Zayne, frowning.
He claps me on the shoulder. “No, son, you are. You got this. I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah, you do it right as we’re losing.” I sigh.
“You all are complete morons.” I can’t figure out who said that until the Finnish giant stands up and crosses his arms. “Ellie, could you please give us a rundown of the plays for thisgame? Some of us are actually here to win and not waste time.” He says this in perfect English with a British accent.
“You speak English?” Jovi hollers.
“My mum’s British,” Heikkiläinen says simply.
“Why weren’t you speaking with us? We had to use Google Translate,” I demand.
“Because you all are brain-damaged idiots and I wanted you to leave me alone.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Ren throws down his glove. “Shiftless Europeans. Ain’t that just the way.”
35
ELLIE
Ican’t read Fletcher’s expression as the guys line up, rolling their shoulders, flexing in their skates as they wait to head out onto the ice.
Fletcher is quietly arguing with Zayne about who’s going out last.
“You have theCon your shirt,” Zayne insists.
“I didn’t put it there. You’re Murphy’s Law—you go last.”
“I went last the last time, and we lost.”
Fletcher huffs.
“You can’t argue with the logic of superstition,” I tease. I smile at him then quickly look away. He’s back, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I know where we stand.
The crowd roars. The game’s about to start.
“The announcer yells, ‘And here are your Rhode Island Hockey Club!’”
The bass of the rap song drops. I brush the sleeve of Fletcher’s jersey.
“Any last-minute tips, Coach Candy Cane?” He pauses before stepping on the ice.
