“Hey, no cutting in line!” one of the D-men complains when I jump in front of him. I shoot him an ugly look, and his mouth snaps shut.
“Fletcher,” Ellie begins.
I grab her arm, shifting my stick as my teammates file past me onto the ice. “I don’t know what the fuck kind of hippie, gentle-parenting nuttiness is going on here, and I don’t care. We are losing. Butterflies and snack time aren’t gonna save us. You gotta make Cookie play,” I hiss to Ellie.
She gives me a helpless gesture. “He’s traumatized.”
“Cookie,” I snarl at the kid. He squeaks then runs to hide in the players’ bench.
“Stop it,” Ellie snaps at me. “He will play when he’s ready. I think he needs some therapy. Zayne,” she calls to my once and future idol. “Dig deep to win that face-off.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I force through gritted teeth, mindful of the cameras hovering around us. “Zayne can’t play. I saw your grandmother give him a shot of tequila.”
“I can get another three minutes out of him.” Ellie is stubborn.
“Whatever, Coach.” Disgusted, I hop over the boards onto the ice.
Zayne reeks of alcohol next to me as we take the ice—it’s leaking out of his pores. The ref raises the puck, and Zayne almost pitches into Ryder O’Connell as he leans forward for the face-off, righting himself at the last moment.
Fucked. We are fucked.
Ryder wins the face-off. Again.
We’re on the defensive. Even with the tequila surging through his veins, Zayne is still one of the better players on the ice on our side, at least.
Which is truly a testament to how piss-poor the Rhode Islanders are.
Against all odds, Zayne gets the puck away from one of the Direwolves forwards. He surges forward.
He’s doing it. It’s like when I was a kid watching the Olympics—Zayne Murphy with the puck, racing to the net.
Except Ryder’s there somehow, materializing in front of him. He does this little stutter step. Zayne’s reflexes just aren’t there, and he loses control of the puck.
I skate backward, trying desperately to stay up ahead of Ryder, keeping my body between him and the net as he zips up to it, cutting through our defense like they’re peewee hockey players trying to poke check the puck away from him.
He’s gonna fake it. He’s gonna fake it, I tell myself.I’ve watched him play. He’s gonna fake it.
He fakes it.
I’m ready for him, collecting his pass with my stick, trying to manage it and head for the boards. But three Direwolves are on me, banging into me, trying to knock me off-balance. I dig in, but I can’t hold onto it. It’s three-on-one because Ryder actually has teammates who have his back, because the Direwolves are a real team.
The puck gets passed back to Ryder. I’m not fast enough to leap across to block Ryder’s shot.
It goes in the net right over Ren’s shoulder.
Ren’s screaming at me as the goal horn blares and lights flash, making me wince. “You should have just stayed the fuck on the other side of the blue line. You blocked my sight. This is your fucking fault!” He throws his glove at me. “Goddamn motherfucking—”
I skate away from him, breathing hard.
“You can’t be in here, Mom,” Ellie is saying when I hop the boards into the bench. Is she even paying attention to the game?
Her mother hands me a bottle of some sports drink with Ryder O’Connell’s face on it. “I’m just trying to be helpful. You don’t have any assistant coaches,” Ellie’s mom argues.
“You’re not even wearing the right jersey.”
“I have to support your brothers.”
“Mom—”
