“That bitch never should have fired you.”
“Her sorority sister complained about me. Of course she’s going to side with her rich friend over me.”
“Her little brat deserved to get punched in the face.” Harlowe is emphatic. “He pulled that little girl’s pants down. If it were me, I’d have taken his eye out with a crayon.”
“I give it three days before Braxton’s mom is trying to get me fired,” I say with a sigh as I contemplate the oil drums of whey powder.
“So you are going to stay on as coach?” My cousin gives me a knowing smirk. “Your mom does want grandkids.”
“Ugh, not you too. Hockey social media gossip accounts are all acting like I’m sleeping with the players.”
“They’re jealous. I mean, anyone would want to sleep with one of those guys.”
“Some of them are children.”
“Fletcher’s not.” Harlowe giggles.
I’m not thinking about Fletcher and the way my car still seems to smell like him.There is something wrong with you if you think an unshowered hockey player smells nice.
Not nice. Intriguing.
“We’ll see how this game goes. I’ll probably get run out of town after the historically bad loss.” I toss a marked-down advent calendar in my basket.
“Don’t you already have an advent calendar?”
“It’s on sale, and sometimes I can’t wait for the next day to get a treat. I need days’ worth of surprise chocolate at once.”
“The Rhode Islanders haven’t been losing as bad since they called up Fletcher,” Harlowe reminds me as we make our way to checkout.
“He’s played two games, and they lost by five points, but the Rhode Islanders haven’t gone against the Direwolves.” I wince when the cashier rings up my purchases. Not that I was making that much money at the daycare, but at least we got reimbursed for snacks and treats and whatnot for the kids.
“Oof,” Harlowe says as I swipe my credit card. “And to think we all wanted to have big families. We do not have big-family jobs or big-family money.”
“Or big-family, high-income husbands.”
“Though,” Harlowe says as we head to the food court, “now that you’re high up in the NHL, you could get a rich hockey player.”
“The highest-paid players are the Finnish guy, who doesn’t speak English; Zayne Murphy, who really needs a twenty-four seven nurse; and Cookie, and I already have two little brothers—I don’t need another.”
“There’s Fletcher.” Harlowe waggles her eyebrows. “He’s hot. And he smells good.”
“Not good.”Intriguing. “He’s a dick. And a problem. He’s making an already-impossible situation even worse. He’s fighting me every step of the way.” I take a bite of my hot dog. It crackles under my tongue, the mustard spicy on the roof of my mouth. I close my eyes and sink into the bliss that is cheap grilled meat.
“You oughtta be ashamed of yourself,” a woman says shrilly behind me. I almost choke on my hot dog as I turn to see who is yelling at me.
I gulp down my Diet Coke as Harlowe stands up. “Ashamed?” my friend demands.
“You stole that coaching job.”
“Stole from who?” I cough.
“You conned your way into that job,” the woman rails at me. “You’re not qualified to coach an NHL team. You slept your way to the top.”
“It’s the worst damn team in the NHL. If she’s sleeping her way to the top, you’d think she’d be in NYC fucking her way through the Direwolves,” Harlowe yells at her.
“You’re just jealous, Moira,” Granny Murray hollers at the woman. “You think your precious son, who lives in your basement, may I add—”
“Gran, I live at home. Maybe don’t throw stones from glass houses and all that,” I mumble.
