“I’m not sleeping with them!” I screech.
“Of course not. Who would think that?” Ryder’s brow furrows.
“Like, uh, everyone,” Dakota says as Gracie gets the door.
Ryder’s husky almost bowls us over. “Down, Dasher. He’s not trained.”
“Fletcher’s not trained,” Gracie snickers.
“She’s drunk, and she’s been watching that interview on repeat.” Dakota rolls her eyes.
The living room is decorated with streamers and signs proclaiming “Congratulations on your first NHL goal, Adam and Jace” in big sparkly letters.
Someone has added with a Sharpie, “and game, Ellie.”
Holiday music thumps. I keep to the wall, expecting my family to crowd around Ryder to talk hockey.
Except they ignore him and bum-rush me. Ryder’s eyes crinkle as he takes the box I’m carrying. All the men in my family crowd around me and loudly and drunkenly give me their opinions on how I need to coach the team.
“You gotta trade Zayne Murphy,” Adam insists. He’s got a bandage on his neck from the big fight and is clutching his game-day puck.
“She can’t trade him—he’s family,” my uncle slurs.
“He’s not family.” His wife swats him.
“No, no, no,” my cousin Nico tells me, holding out his phone. “You see this? This is the play that won Boston the game in ’06. That’s the drill you need to run.”
“Bag skates.” A great-uncle raises his glass. “When I was in the league, they had us run bag skates from noon till dusk.”
“Actually, bag skates aren’t as good for cardio or strength training as—”
Another uncle cuts me off. “Now, I’m gonna give you some advice.” He drapes an arm around me, beer in hand. “This is the line that you need. Okay, listen, write this down: Fletcher on center, that new rookie—what’s his name—Genovia…”
“You’re thinking ofPrincess Diaries.”
“Whatever his name is.” My uncle leans on me. “Winger. Put the Finnish boy on defense.”
“He’s better on forward. I’m actually thinking about building another line around him as center.”
“No, no, no. I know hockey, and I’m telling you—”
“Back, back!” Granny Murray hollers. “Blowhards!”
“Here’s what you need to do,” Dakota says loudly as she steals food off her sister’s plate. “You need to do something about Fletcher. He almost killed Ryder.”
“He wasn’t anywhere near Ryder,” I argue with my cousin.
“You all aren’t asking the right questions,” Aunt Babs insists. “I want to know how big their dicks are.”
“I am not looking at their private parts.”
“This is why you don’t have any grandchildren,” Aunt Babs tells my mom. “This is why.”
“You should have invited the boys to the party.” My mom clucks her tongue at me.
“I’m not inviting the Rhode Islanders to a party”—I point to the yellow-and-black sign—“celebrating the people who just beat them.”
“It wasn’t a beating—it was a massacre.” Jace smirks, tossing his puck in the air.
