“You’re going to tell them that you don’t need a dick to play hockey!” Granny Murray hollers.
Outside, my brothers are meowing at the kitchen window.
“You got this!” Granny Murray bangs her chest. “Don’t let the boys get you down.”
“Men!” Dad yells. “They are grown men. Violent. Uneducated. Crass!”
“I really wouldn’t say that, Mr. Clarke,” Harlowe says as she opens the kitchen door and stomps the snow off her boots. “They’re more lazy and useless. Practice is a joke.”
“Don’t let them inside,” my mom warns as my brothers rush back into the kitchen.
“Cold, cold, cold!”
“I think you’re making this about you a little bit, dear,” my mom says gently to Dad. “We talked about this with the boys when they were drafted to the Direwolves. It’s their career. You already had your NHL career.”
“Career,” Harlowe snorts. “Girl, they are throwing you off a glass cliff.”
“I don’t want everyone to blame me when we get creamed.” I sink in my chair.
My dad kneels in front of me and grabs my hand. “Exactly! So do the press conference, say you have another job offer, and this will all be over.”
“No wonder they kept trading your ass around when you were a goalie!” Granny Murray makes a rude noise. “You’re a quitter and a narc.”
Angie comes in with my phone that’s ringing and ringing.
I don’t recognize the number, though it’s a Maplewood Falls area code.
“It’s the press.” Angie waves the phone at me. “Tell them you won’t do interviews unless they pay you.”
“Ooh! Yeah, then we can go shopping,” Maxine squeals.
“Aunt Babs already bought you clothes, sweetie.” Mom smooths my hair down.
“Don’t talk to the press,” my dad begs.
“Nate,” my mom tells him, “let me make you some herbal tea.”
“Food!” my little brothers wail.
“For God’s sake,” my dad curses.
I answer the phone.
“Speaker,” Maxie whispers. “Put it on speaker.”
“Hello?” My voice is hesitant.
A loud, irritated male sigh echoes around the kitchen as everyone watches breathlessly. “Candy Cane?” I can practically hear Fletcher roll his eyes. “I mean,CoachCandy Cane.”
I grimace. “About that…”
“You better not be flaking out,” the deep voice warns. “You have the keys. We’re freezing our nuts off out here.”
7
FLETCHER
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Our new coach slips and slides up to the stadium. She’s got a huge ring of keys with her. “The equipment guys didn’t open this up?” she chatters. Her cheeks are pink. She’s not wearing any makeup, and I’m pretty sure that’s a pajama top under her half-zipped coat. She looks frazzled. Inexperienced. Incompetent.
