“He couldn’t even make it onto the junior A-team, and you think he was going to be a coach? He can’t even find his own dick under his foreskin.”
“You witch! He’d be better than her!”
We are drawing a crowd. I recognize several people from Mom’s book club.
“Ellie!”
“Hi, Mrs. Harrison.” My mouth is dry. “How’s your cat doing? My mom said you had to take her to the emergency vet.”
“Yes, she ate a sock, but all is well now! I’m bringing my famous peppermint bark by—let your mom know.”
“That’s perfect. We’re having family over.”
“…a bum,” Granny Murray is railing. “You wiped his ass up till he was age seven then never taught him to do it himself. You were co-sleeping with him when he was a teenager.”
The woman huffs. Her shopping buddies glare at me and Gran. “I know you don’t belong there,” she says, “and you’re going to lose that game tomorrow and ruin those poor boys’ futures. Then everyone else will know it too.”
11
FLETCHER
Istand half hidden in shadows on the top tier of seats in the Holbrook Enterprises Stadium, watching the Manhattan Direwolves swagger in for their pregame practice.
When I was a kid and I dreamed of being in the NHL, these guys were who I wanted to be. Specifically, someone like Ryder O’Connell. He came into the league in a roundabout way but is now considered one of the best players of his generation: Fast. Acute hockey IQ. Handsome. Sincere. Smart. Good on camera. Team player. “Leadership” is what hockey players spew out whenever they’re asked to describe him. That or “aura.”
The whole Direwolves team is god tier. Even the coaches. Their coaching team is basically the USA National coaching team.
I know I’m not supposed to be watching as their coach calmly but assuredly calls out drills and the guys react like they’re trained military operatives or something. Everyone locked in, focused.
“Man. I remember those days. The world at your feet… when we were gods…” Zayne lets out a belch and takes a swig of vodka.
The noise ricochets around the empty stadium, and I drag him back into the shadows as the Direwolves all look up at the stands as one.
The media’s already lining up. I grab Zayne’s now-empty bottle and toss it into a trash can before the media can get photos of him. He’s obviously drunk and gonna cost us the game, but shit, he’s my childhood hero. I can’t let him go out like this.
“Everyone wants to see the NHL’s first female coach lose her first game,” Eddie remarks when I shove Zayne into the locker room and head to the meal spread to get him something to soak up the liquor. In his prime, he would have been the terror of the Direwolves. Now? Maybe he’ll be a puck sponge.
“Fuck off, Eddie.”
“Yeah, fuck off, Eddie.” Ren swaggers into the locker room. He’s barefoot in a wifebeater and cutoff jean shorts, the ankle monitor big and bulky on his leg. He flops down next to Jonesy, props his dirty foot up on my bag, stuffs something in his mouth, and licks the grease off his fingers.
I glare down at him. “What the hell are you eating?”
“Your dick.”
“Did you get McDonald’s? We’re already gonna lose—you can’t be in a fast-food coma in the net,” I bitch at him.
“I want chicken nuggets,” two of the rookies complain. “That’s not fair.”
Ren grabs my water bottle and squirts it in his mouth. “It ain’t chicken nuggets, kids, it’s a bagel pizza. I guess this is what your people eat up here. Not as good as a biscuit and gravy.”
“The fuck—”
“Pizza!”
I stalk into the kitchen after the rookies.
“Are we ready for a snack?” A pleasant-looking woman beams at me. She looks unsettlingly familiar.
