“I’m gonna mail you a box of tampons,” Carlsson hollers at Eddie. “Fucking traitor!”
I look up at the clock and cringe. “We have another seven minutes until the game is over. That’s a lot of time. Anything could happen. Boston could easily score another goal.” I chew worriedly on my lip.
Fletcher jumps the boards, grabs me around the waist, and sets me on top of the bench. “Nah,” he says, leaning back to rest against my legs. “We’re going to win. And if we don’t, Ren has a gun in the trunk of his car, so one way or the other, this is over.”
Ryan West, another hockey superstar,thanks for coming, calmly calls out line changes for the Harbor Hawks. His son Mason is new, a rookie, but he’s going to be as good as his father.
The first line isn’t out on the ice, and Mason’s locked in. Ren readies himself in the net as Mason flies down the ice, dangles the puck, then—
“Goal!”
I cringe. “Dammit, we’re tied.”
“I’m going to get another goal,” Cookie says happily, handing me the bottle cap for safekeeping.
“Please do.”
Cookie’s magic as he flies around the Boston players, the puck glued to his stick. He sends it to the Finn, and then, tic-tac-toe, it’s a—
“Goal!”
“Yes! Surprise bag is mine!” Heikkiläinen whoops, skating past on one leg, pretending to play his stick like a guitar while Cookie dances to the Barbie song and my players throw tamponsthat Granny Murray has provided into the air like money in a rap video.
The ref blows his whistle at us.
“Sorry,” I tell him.
Eddie glares at me as he skates by to get a drink of water from his bench during the commercial break. He seems furious as his team digs in for the face-off.
Fletcher wins the face-off, and the puck flies to Cookie. One of the bigger forwards sprints at Cookie. He dodges him but loses the puck. Zayne is there, knocking the guy off-balance and collecting the puck.
Cookie already put himself in position. Fletcher’s keeping pace with him but gets tangled up with Boston’s centerman.
The Finn makes a break to the net, passes to Zayne, then back to Cookie. He’s about to score.
Mason cuts him off. Cookie quick-whips the puck to Fletcher and sprints toward the net. It’s a play we’ve practiced. If Fletcher gets him the puck, he’s going to score, and we’re going to win.
“We’re going to make it,” I breathe.
I can barely watch as Cookie hurtles down the ice. Then Eddie clips Cookie. The kid’s skating so fast that he goes flying, smashes into the boards, and lands in a heap to yells from the crowd.
“Cookie!” I cry.
Fletcher doesn’t even hesitate. He leaves the puck he was chasing and turns on Eddie.
Technically, the rules state that fighting is allowed, but it’s supposed to be a fair fight—drop the gloves, no weapons.
That’s not how the Marines trained Fletcher to fight, apparently, because he goes after Eddie with his stick, smashing it over him, kicking him, and trying to slash his throat with his skate.
“Fletcher, stop it! You’re going to kill him!”
“He’s going to get a massive fine and be banned for the rest of the year.” Harlowe sucks in a breath.
Zayne grabs Fletcher around the arm, trying to get him off of Eddie as Eddie’s new teammates jump Fletcher. He uses his hockey stick to slash at them.
Ren is screaming obscenities from the net.
Finally, the Finn wades through the carnage and grabs Fletcher around the waist, hauls him away, and dumps him on the ice.
