“I don’t—”
“And you’re just half hard because you’re thinking about the furry porn you’re going to watch tonight in your unwashed sheets.” She looks down. My dick shrivels up. “If you want to keep playing for the NHL, you better shape up, Sullivan.” She turns on impossibly tall and skinny high-heeled shoes and struts like a cat, like a billionaire who literally does own the place. “Tell your idiot, brain-dead hockey pals that I don’t fuck little boys. If your net worth is shorter than your credit card number, I’m not interested. Oh.” She turns over her shoulder, glossy brown hair cascading down her back. “Your nose is leaking. Go to urgent care. You’re not on an NHL contract, and I don’t have to cover you with my insurance.”
Ellie is bubblyand happy at practice the next morning when I stomp down the tunnel and glide onto the ice.
“We are still technically the worst team in the league,” she says, “but the important part is that we are still a team. I’m loving the team energy!”
My teammates don’t look all that upset about the loss, nor are they resigned.
“We’re not that bad.” Bramms grins. “I’ve got like five requests to be on hockey podcasts. Shit’s lit!”
“Yeah, we’re famous.” Jovi is giddy.
“And look.” Ziggy shoves his phone at Ellie. “Vegas changed our odds. Bookies think we’ll only lose by one or two points against Seattle in a few days.”
“Still a loss,” I mutter. One of the rookies who hears me seems to wilt.
Ellie calls out the drill she wants us to do, then she skates over to me. “You need to keep a positive attitude,” she scolds. “Don’t bring down the group. They look up to you.” Her tone has thatI’m not angry, just very disappointed in youedge.
Screw her.
I hate the way that makes me feel like I’m a kid again and my mother and my fucking teachers are trying to tell me that I’m the problem—that if I only just applied myself, I could be someone.
“Shift your weight like this,” Ellie says, demonstrating how she wants us to come into the shot. “Everyone, do it slowly. If you can’t do it perfectly slow, you’re not doing it perfectly fast.”
As soon as she lets us line up, I send the pile of pucks in front of me ricocheting into the empty net.
The Finn whistles.
“Wow!” The rookies are impressed.
Ellie beams at me. “See? Fletch did it perfectly.”
She doesn’t have any right to be pleased. She didn’t do anything.
My mood gets worse and worse as we run the drills and practice the plays then finally do a scrimmage.
Ren settles in the net a lot more confidently than Braxton, who seems like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I’d rather be anywhere else. I skate around in a tight circle.
“Now, Seattle is tough,” Ellie says as we line up on the red line. “But I think we can beat them.”
“No, you don’t. No one does.”
She glares at me. I match it.
The mood has shifted in the ice rink. The players are antsy from the slow control and focus of the drills. Everyone wants to play fast.
We position for face-off. Ellie drops the puck, and I slam it to Eddie and rocket forward.
“No!” Ellie yells as we ignore her, heading for the net.
She blows her whistle as Ren catches the shot.
“Go back to the center line. We’re running it again. Do the butterfly pattern.”
“This is how I always play,” Eddie complains.
