“Why do we even have to practice before that game?” Bramms sighs.
“We should go pray.” Carlsson is solemn.
“My parents are coming in,” Jovi says, talking a mile a minute. “My sister wants to go to the Christmas market, and so does my aunt. My aunt likes to shop. My dad thinks she has ashopping addiction, but I don’t think so. And so I want to leave early today. You think Coach will let us leave early?”
“I think you can probably just walk outta here whenever the hell you want,” Eddie jokes.
A few yards away, Ellie is steaming. “I need you all to pay attention—”
I smirk behind my glove, chewing on my mouthguard as I slowly spin around.
“They have reindeer at the Christmas market—real reindeer,” Jovi chatters, “and you can pet them and feed them and—oh!” Suddenly, he freezes. “I know this game. I know this game!” He slaps a glove over his mouth and holds up his hand.
I peer behind me. Ellie is standing there on center ice, calmly, quietly, one finger over her lips, the other hand raised, index finger up.
“What the fuck?”
Cookie claps his glove over his mouth, and his hand goes up.
She puts two fingers up.
The Finnish giant mimics the motion.
Bramms follows, then Ziggy, then more of the team does it, too, especially once Zayne snorts awake and puts his hand up.
“What are we, in kindergarten?” I cross my arms. “The groupthink is strong with you all.” My voice sounds weird and awkward in the silence of the ice rink. I cringe like I’ve done something very wrong.
At that point, even Eddie unwillingly covers his mouth and puts his hand up.
I’m the last one standing.
The guys all give me ugly looks.
I hate being human, I decide, as I, too, finally cover my own mouth and put my hand up.
Ellie holds up the fifth finger. “My class,” she says calmly but weirdly authoritatively. “We have a game tonight, so we’re all going to pull together and—”
“I need to speak to the manager of this establishment!” a woman yells from across the ice.
8
ELLIE
“Do one-touch drills,” I instruct the players, shooting a quick pass to Fletcher.
I keep my attention partially on them as I skate over to head off the irate woman. From my time in early childhood education, I have eyes in the back of my head, and I am not turning my focus off the players while I address the angry mom in front of me.
“I’m Coach Clarke. How can I help you?”
Behind me, Bramms puts Cookie in a loose headlock. Cookie starts crying.
“We keep our hands to ourselves!” I bellow.
Bramms gives me a wide-eyed look and jumps back. “You saw that?”
“Yes, just like I saw you miss the net.”
The guys snicker.
