“My daughter told me that you all are supposed to eat before a game.” Ellie’s mom.Trinais the name embroidered on the apron. “These are what I always make my boys. I took some to the Direwolves too. They have fancy nutritionists, and my boys said they wouldn’t eat these—can you believe it? But you look like you want some.” She holds up the pan.
My stomach grumbles. “It’s not in the meal plan. Did the nutritionist okay this?” I know it sounds sour and ungrateful, but geez, she might as well serve us beer and pretzels.
Ellie rushes in, red-faced. “The nutritionist quit.” The door slams behind her, cutting off yells from the media. “Mom, healthy—I said healthy!”
“It’s got protein, and that’s real tomato sauce—homemade, not ketchup like Hilda puts on her pizzas. And she wonders why her children never come home to see her.” Trina is offended.
“Mom,” Ellie complains as her mom tries to scrub at her face.
“You have to go on camera. I want you to look your best, snickerdoodle.”
“So you have your whole family working here, Coach Candy Cane—or should I say, Coach Snickerdoodle?”
Ellie glares at me.
“I’m a volunteer,” Trina says happily. “I’m so excited to be a team mom again.”
“It’s temporary, Mom, temporary until Dana removes the hiring freeze.”
“Paid nutritionists won’t make team snacks with love.” Ellie’s mom loads up a plate with steaming bagel halves oozing cheese and pepperoni grease.
Jovi and Bramms come in drooling, followed by Cookie, who is immediately babied by Ellie’s mom, a napkin quickly tucked around his neck.
“Is she hand-feeding him?” I whisper to Ellie.
She grimaces. “You don’t have to eat that. I have protein bars.”
“Do I want a bitter-tasting, freeze-dried protein bar?” I muse. “Nah. Screw it. I’m about to be slaughtered by the Direwolves in front of a crowd of twenty thousand plus the millions and millions of people watching to see if a girl can, in fact, coach in the NHL.”
Ellie claps a hand to her mouth. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
I take a bite of the bagel as she races off to find a bathroom. “All the bathrooms are male only,” I call after her. “You might need to pee in a—goddamn, that’s fucking good.” After years of military meals then whatever protein-rich slop the nutritionists prepared for us, it has been a while since I’ve had a good meal.
Ellie’s mom beams as the team stuffs our faces.
“Cheese,” Ziggy groans. “I need more women in my life.”
“Can we have pot roast for the next meal?” Carlsson begs.
“With mashed potatoes,” Jonesy begs.
I should protest, should insist on chickpea pasta with a sauce made out of bean-and-chicken paste. Instead, I stuff another bagel in my mouth, the hot cheese singeing the roof of my mouth.
“You know what?” Bramms says around the bread and cheese. “I have a really good feeling about this game. It might be the grease-and-sodium high, but I think we’re gonna win this one.”
“Yeah, we fucking got this.” Jonesy downs more pizza.
“I made a Milky Way bar cake for dessert,” Ellie’s mom calls.
“Chocolate!” the rookies cheer.
“No.” Ellie rushes back into the room, her hairline damp like she’s splashed water on her face. “No cake. Brush your teeth then go get dressed. We have a game.”
Ellie’s mom sneaks us slices of cake while Ellie and Harlowe try to manhandle Zayne into his uniform. Ellie’s also trying to stuff food down his throat without choking him.
Her grandmother pulls up a chair in front of Ren and pulls out a hacksaw and an electric drill and starts going to town on the ankle monitor.
“Gran, delicately, delicately—we can’t—” The thing starts beeping angrily.
