“No, the nacho ones.”
“Those are only for winners,” Bramms drawls at them.
“We’re never going to win.” The rookies are sad.
“Don’t bet against hockey.”
Jovi piles up his Lunchables, making a megastack of crackers, the little pressed turkey rounds, and the squares of American cheese, and stuffs it all in his mouth and chews.
The Finn crushes up the container, dumps the entire contents into his mouth, and chews.
The rookies are very carefully assembling their crackers and taking pictures of each other eating them.
Fletcher slowly peels back the plastic. I itch to peel it off for him.
“He can do it himself,” I whisper.
Fletcher glares at me. He doesn’t eat the crackers—just the cheese and meat.
“Can I have your crackers?” The rookies crowd around him.
“No, I want them.”
“That’s Fletcher’s food.” I try to shoo them away.
Fletcher shifts. “Share it,” he says gruffly, shoving the container at them.
“So you’re staying on as the coach?” one of the rookies asks me.
“Of course she is,” Carlsson scoffs.
“Yay!” they cheer. “Can we make pregame meal requests?” They raise their hands. “I want pancakes.”
“Protein,” Fletcher barks.
“Err—”
Fletcher perks up when Dana Holbrook walks in.
“Now, that was a hockey game, boys!” She acts like she’s walking down a catwalk, not into a dank locker room.
“I’ve just gotten calls from several big advertising agencies. Seems the brawls attracted a lot of eyeballs, and that means dollar signs. Ellie”—she addresses me—“I gave them your and Harlow’s emails. I know you have her helping you on the PR side. Don’t sell them any advertising for less than ten million.”
Fletcher is watching her like a starving man.
Of course he is. Dana is the perfect woman—tall, thin, athletic but still curvy. She could put anySports Illustratedswimsuit model to shame.
Those hockey players like sex after a game. Dana’s not dumb—she knows it, and she’s scouting out her pick of the night like they’re her tasty prize in an advent calendar.
Well, let her have it.
Her eyes go to Fletcher. Dana’s gaze flicks up and down him.
One of the D-men opens his mouth, probably to make a lewd comment. Fletcher picks up the puck next to him on the bench and, without even looking, hurls it at the D-man, who yelps.
Dana smirks at Fletcher. They’re doing that silent-flirting thing that really attractive people do.
I busy myself packing up the cooler.
