The elderly woman takes out a mallet and smashes it to pieces on the floor. “Fuck the government.”
“No, no, no!” Ellie tries to piece the ankle monitor back together. “My goalie cannot go back to prison. We need him.”
“She needs me.” Ren waggles his eyebrows at me, one of which looks like it was split open and superglued back together crooked.
“We haven’t actually seen him play,” I say snidely. Ren pulls out what looks like a prison shank.
Ziggy yanks me away. “We can’t lose you, man. He’s good, he’s all good,” Ziggy says to Ren.
Granny Murray dusts off her hands. “I have a gun in my purse. The feds show up, I’ll hold them off.”
Ellie’s mother appears in the doorway with more slices of cake. “Your dad’s cousin Beater is on the parole board, Ellie. I’ll bake him a Victoria sponge cake and get that sorted right out.” She beams at us. “Oh, I’m so happy to be involved with a hockey team again!”
Bramms helpfully takes the tray of cake slices she’s carrying so she can wrap Ellie into a big hug.
“Mom, Mom,Mooom!”
I take another piece. If I’m going to die in humiliation, at least it will be hyped up on sugar.
“I can’t play,” Braxton whines in his oversized goalie gear. “I’m allergic to dairy. I didn’t get a snack. Didn’t my mom tell you I have a dairy allergy?”
“I pulled your file—you don’t have a dairy allergy. But,” Ellie adds, “that’s okay. You can sit on the bench with Cookie and cheer on your team.”
The Finnish giant eats his cake in two massive bites, says something in Scandinavian, then slams his helmet on his head.
It’s the chocolate or the sugar or the carbs, but I’m feeling pumped as Ellie tells us to gather around.
“Story time,” she sings. Cookie and the other rookies flop down on the floor at her feet. She holds up a book.
“Wait, we’re actually having story time?” I scoff.
“We’re actually looking at the plays. I’ve been watching tapes of the Direwolves’ games, and here’s how we’re going to win.”
It’s so matter-of-fact. She has this soothing but authoritative way of talking—it lulls me back to elementary school, when school was the escape from home and my teacher Mrs. Smith would let you select a prize if you answered a question correctly.
The plays are good. Not overly complicated. Thoughtful. And well drawn. All my other coaches—not just the one in jail—would just scribble wildly on a board while yelling angry and conflicting information at us then wonder why we didn’t know what we were doing on the ice.
I perk up when Ellie starts giving the line assignments of which players are going to be on the ice together. I’m on a line with Zayne Murphy and the Finn. My childhood self is freaking out right now.
“Captain,” she says to Zayne after we all have our line assignments. “How about a speech?”
Zayne hauls himself up then immediately doubles over and pukes.
“Bad omen. Bad, bad, bad,” Jonesy mutters and clutches his lucky bobblehead.
Ellie’s eye is twitching as her grandmother pulls out a mop bucket.
“I’ll make him some mint tea.” Her mother bustles off.
Granny Murray tips Zayne over, practically holding him up. She’s surprisingly strong for an old woman.
“Oof.” Jovi makes a face when the old woman sticks her finger down Zayne’s throat. I curse as he pukes the rest of his dinner into the bucket.
Zayne shakes his head. “Pucks in net, boys,” he slurs. “We got this. Watch out for Jagr—he favors his right leg. Keep him on the boards, and we’ll get shot after shot when his line is on the ice.” He sucks down the water Ellie hands him then splashes some on his face.
“Jagr hasn’t played for the Direwolves in five years,” Bramms hisses at me as Ellie shoos us down the tunnel to the ice.
Ellie is excited, practically jumping up and down next to me as I stand there watching Jovi try to coax Cookie onto the ice. “It’s your first NHL game as an alternate captain!” she says. Perched on the blades of my skates, I look down at her. I can’t tell if she’s being condescending, but she looks genuinely excited and happy for me. “Enjoy it! Have fun! You’re a pro hockey player.”
