“And whisper in her ear, ‘I want to know what it’s like to fuck a billion dollars.’” Skylar hasn’t even touched me, and I already feel like fucking like a rabbit. “She’ll appreciate it.” Skylar’s eyes flick down my chest then up. My T-shirt feels tight. “Also, her password is 9-0-2-1-0. I know, right?”
The room’s door clicks unlocked. Skylar picks up her silky jacket, throws it over one shoulder, and saunters to the doorway.
I follow her, mainly so Zayne doesn’t think I’m getting laid the night before a big game. He might be a drunk, but he’s still my idol, and I don’t want him to think I’m not taking my NHL shot seriously.
I huff a laugh at the irony right as the door opens.
Ellie’s standing there in the hallway, mouth slightly open. Skylar looks her up and down and gives me a pointed look. “Evening, doll.” Skylar blows her a kiss as she saunters by.
“I, uh…” Ellie stammers.
“Trying to round up the troops. Didn’t know you were, uh, busy.” Her hands are doing a nervous fluttering.
I pull on my sweatshirt. “Yeah, I’m ready.” I step up to her. Her brown eyes are huge in her head, her eyebrows raised. The pulse in her neck jumps as I close the distance. “You gonna let me by, or are you gonna give me a big speech about how you’re disappointed and you might have to drag me to time-out again?”
“Oh, uh…” Ellie jumps about two feet in the air then over as I swing past her.
I wait for her to make some snide comment about Skylar, but she just chatters nervously next to me about the plays, about the Orcas, about the strategy.
On the fancy bus—not a school bus like my U18 team used to travel around in; this one’s got Wi-Fi and AC—I snarl at one of the rookies. He jumps out of a seat near the front, and I stretch both of my legs out across the seat.
Ellie keeps chewing on her lip as the bus drives to the stadium.
She can’t be jealous, right? Ellie can’t stand me. She’s the hardest on me of everyone, and I’m neither a drunk nor mouthy, and I actually do try in practice. Usually.
Ellie turns in her seat to fuss with the useless rookies and catches me staring at her. She startles, sending her sparkling pink mug clattering to the floor.
She seems to calm down at practice, herding us like one of those corgis my cousin’s always threatening to buy as she acts out the plays with probably way more enthusiasm than is decent for an NHL coach to have.
After practice, she bounces over to me.
“I hope you’re not wanting to come up to my room to burn off some game-day jitters.” I wipe my face with a towel.
“God, no.” She wrinkles her nose.
So she’s not interested after all.
But there’s that rash of red on her neck.
So maybe a little.
“I need you to do something for me.”
I lean down. “This better not be another manipulation tactic from you.”
“It’s for the good of the team.”
“The team?” On the ice, the rookies are playing around, kicking snow at each other. One of them screeches as ice is shoved down his jersey. “If you cared about the team, you’d chuck us into the river in full gear and put us out of our misery.”
“I think we can win tomorrow.” She’s stubborn.
“No, you don’t.”
“We have a good team.”
“We have a terrible team.”
“We have Zayne Murphy.”
