For a man that has been day drinking, still probably drunk from last night, he’s surprisingly steady as he follows through on the slap shot.
“That’s why he’s Murphy’s Law.” The players are impressed as the shot rockets down the ice and flies right into the corner of the net.
In a delayed reaction, Braxton shrieks and jumps. “It almost hit me.”
“It almost hit him! It almost hit my baby!” his mom yells, batting me with her handbag. “My husband is on the NHL board, and the chairman will hear about this.”
“It’s hockey,” I say desperately. “Someone might get hurt.”
Jovi one-touches Zayne another puck, and he buries it in the net. Which yields more yelping from Braxton.
“You have to try to catch it.” I mime the motion. “Use your blocker.”
Behind me, Fletcher is cursing. “We are so fucked tonight. So fucked.”
9
FLETCHER
“Great practice, everyone. I’m seeing a lot of improvement,” Ellie announces.
It’s so obvious Ellie is lying. Her eye is twitching.
It was a terrible practice.
Harlowe is waiting by the tunnel, the good-smelling boxes by her side. “You get one corn muffin and one pig in a blanket,” she announces. “One!” She slaps at Cookie.
“He shouldn’t get any,” Eddie complains as he accepts his snack. “He won’t even play.”
“You don’t want to play?” Ellie coos to Cookie.
“I can’t.” The words are barely a whisper.
“I wish I could get paid a million dollars to sit on a bench,” I announce loudly.
Cookie shrinks into himself. I almost feel bad.
Ellie gives me a disappointed look, which shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
The Finnish giant brushes past me, gives Harlowe a brilliantly white smile—must be all the fermented fish bonesthey eat over there—says something that sounds like “eel guts” to her, and waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Ellie’s friend giggles and hands him two of the pigs in a blanket.
There’s more unintelligible, garbled language from the Finn, then he’s happily strutting to the locker rooms with more than his fair share of the snacks.
“This is so good,” Jovi groans as I accept my snack from Harlowe.
“Aren’t captains supposed to eat last?” Bramms smirks at me as he accepts his food on a napkin.
I glare down at theAthat’s sprouted up on my jersey then glare even more intensely when I bite into the sausage roll and it’s somehow the best thing I’ve eaten all year.
As I take another bite, Ellie’s up on me like a little Yorkie—like the one my mom used to have—barking at me. “You need to be nicer to Cookie. He’s having a rough time.”
“I’m not his mom.”
“He looks up to you.”
“He will be firmly disabused of that notion.”
