“Just…” I shrug helplessly. “Thanks for coming back.”
He looks like he’s about to say something, but I yelp, interrupting him in panic as I recognize the music of the Barbie song. “Why are they playing this? They can’t play this song!”
Fletcher just smirks. “It’s the Nicki Minaj version. A little of you, a little of me.” He winks at me. “Let’s go win a game, Barbie.”
The crowd sings along as the announcer yells, “Your new captain, Fletcher Sullivan! Give it up!” He speeds around the ice. It’s not lost on me that there are more than a few women who lift up their Rhode Islanders jerseys to show pink lace bras as he zooms by, flying through the crossover.
And some of them I’m related to.
Great.
“Yeah, here’s your motivation, boys!” Granny Murray whoops behind me.
“Gran, put your shirt on.”
“People are ruining the sport of hockey, turning it into a Disney movie! This is a working-class sport!” She shakes her fist.
I have to clutch my clipboard to keep from chewing on my nails in anxiety.
“Good thing you wore the pink suit,” Granny Murray tells me as she nudges me with a bottle of tequila. “You won the last time when you wore the pink suit. This is going to be a tough match. We need all the luck we can get. Shoot, I even brought some tampons to throw at them. They need it,” she tells an irate Harlowe loudly. “You should have seen them at practice. Between you and me and the betting market, I don’t have high hopes.”
Fletcher lines up at the red line for the face-off. Austin, the Boston captain, is across from him with Eddie directly behind.
Fletcher’s locked in.
The puck drops. Fletcher smashes it to Jovi, then the two teams go at each other, each trying to gain and keep possessionof the puck. The crowd groans or roars when the puck heads toward their net or ours.
I cringe. We can’t get it out of the neutral zone. Neither team scores, and during the breaks between periods, the guys all chew on their mouthguards and suck down Gatorade while I go over offensive plays.
It doesn’t help. The Boston Harbor Hawks are known for their defense, and they dig in.
I keep switching out the lines. Cookie is chewing on his mouthguard. He didn’t score the last time he was on the ice, and I can see him getting shaken.
“Cookie, let’s go!”
Cookie jumps onto the ice over the boards. He’s on with Zayne and Fletcher and the Finn.
The line is probably too stacked with talent, but we need a win. We have to put everything on the ice, or the Rhode Islanders are toast.
They break through the defenders. The Finn and Fletcher going breakneck down the ice, clearing a path. Fletcher passes the puck back. Zayne collects it and defends it. The Boston defenders chase him around the net as he ducks and weaves.
“You didn’t give Zayne anything, did you?” I ask Granny Murray suspiciously. “He looks like he’s twenty-five again.”
Zayne makes a quick release pass to Cookie. Cookie takes an incredible backhand shot and—
“GOAL!” I scream as the horns blare. It’s one to nothing, our favor.
The players jump on Cookie, patting his helmet. He plops down on the bench.
“You got us a goal!” I pat his head.
“Yeah,” he pants happily.
I let him have some Goldfish crackers and Gatorade.
“I won.” He holds up the bottle cap. “I get Direwolves tickets.”
On the ice, the Harbor Hawks are pissed. My guys are chirping them, telling them they’re about to lose to a girl.
