“You know, you could be a great NHL captain one day.”
For a second, I believe her, like my childhood dreams of being the next Zayne Murphy could come true. Too bad that dream was dashed when I beat up that star NHL player’s son in juniors five years ago and, instead of getting drafted, had to go into the military to avoid jail.
You’re not an NHL player. You’re a hired gun, I remind myself.
“Cookie needs to learn life sucks,” I tell Ellie.
“We can make it suck a little less for our teammates.” Then she’s off, flitting between the players, offering kind words, praising them each for something they did in practice.
She’s making them soft, I think then remind myself that our team literally cannot get any worse, so who cares.
Cookie’s anxiously hanging back from the group. He looks young and lost.
Not my problem.
He gives me an anxious glance as I walk up, balancing on my skates. I nudge him with my glove. “You want my muffin? I don’t really eat them.”
“Oh yeah, thanks!” He gives me a small, nervous smile. “Do you really think we’re going to lose tonight?”
We definitely will if you don’t play. I bite back the words. “Probably. But you know,” I coax, “you’re good. If you play, we’d have a shot.”
Cookie cringes.
“You don’t have to help us win—just score a few goals. Everyone will see that you’re as good as they promised. Hell, kid—” I lay a hand on his shoulder. “You were this year’s first-round draft pick. You could get a trade deal out of it, go to a real team, have the star NHL career every kid who ever strapped on a pair of hockey skates dreams of.”
Cookie looks down at the snacks in his hand. “I don’t know if other teams will give you homemade snacks.”
“Probably not, but they’ll give you a Stanley Cup.”
Jovi rushes over to me. “There’s a woman in the locker room, and not a nice one.”
“Out!” a heavyset, middle-aged woman screams when we try to head to the showers. “My baby, Braxton, needs to use the shower first.”
Ellie elbows through the men huddled away from the locker-room door.
“Back!” the woman swings her designer purse. “Heathens!”
The purse whacks my elbow.
“Please don’t hit my players,” Ellie begs.
“We’ve got an injury!” her grandmother bellows, rushing over to me with ice packs.
“It just got my body armor—I mean, pads.” I’m not supposed to have been in the military the last four years. According to my cover, I was playing hockey in Switzerland. But no one seems to have noticed, because Mrs. Beavers has pulled out pepper spray.
“And I want you to make sure my baby has ice time!” She berates Ellie.
“Mom, I don’t wanna play! I told you I want to be a video game streamer.” Braxton throws himself down on the bench.
Fucked. We are fucked, Bramms is mouthing while I try to keep Ellie between me and the large can of pepper spray.
“So we’re not going to have a goalie?” Jonesy is freaking out.
“I was supposed to be the backup goalie. You said I didn’t have to play,” Braxton whines.
“Fletcher!” Ellie’s using her teacher voice. “I need you to get dressed. You’re coming with me, Mr. Associate Captain. We are going to bail our starter goalie out of jail.”
I gesture helplessly to the woman. “Can the guys shower first, then Braxton can shower?”
