Fletcher’s worn out and happy, his dark hair plastered to his forehead as he escorts me through the throng back to the locker rooms and sits down at his berth.
The cameras are turned on us. It’s weird having to pretend that they aren’t there.
The rookies keep staring at them until Jonesy snaps his fingers in front of their faces.
Usually, the media don’t want to be in the Rhode Islanders’ locker room. The captain just gives a generic statement about losing and pucks in net and “we’ll get ’em next time.” Then theplayers rush to get out of the stadium and the stench of their loss as quickly as possible.
Now? We’re the stars.
“Cookie! Cookie!” the players chant when he shyly comes into the room. Bramms and Carlsson hoist him up, almost banging his head on the ceiling.
“Are those Lunchables?” one reporter asks as I pop open the cooler.
“The players get an after-game snack,” I explain.
“The pizza ones?” the rookies beg. “We won, so we get pizza Lunchables, right?”
“The after-game snack isn’t about winning or losing,” I remind them. “It’s about how well you did at practice. And I warned you.”
“But we fucking creamed them!”
“Do well at practice this week, you get the pizza Lunchables.” I grab the juice box from Cookie before he can stick the straw in and fold up the top.
“What the hell,” Fletcher says as he unwraps his own straw.
“You’re wearing white uniforms. I’m not cleaning stains out of those,” I warn, reaching for his juice box. “This is a preschool-teacher hack.”
“I think I can manage.” He stabs it with a straw. Red juice spurts out all over his shirt.
“Goddamn it.”
“It’s a fucking good juice box.” Jovi leans back, downing the whole thing with no straw, just crushing it into his mouth, while I take a Tide pen to Fletcher’s jersey.
“Oh man, I’m going to chill in the hot tub after this.” Bramms pulls off his skates.
“Hot tubs? Room service? What kind of hockey players are you?” Granny Murray rages. “You just won your first NHL game. Go out and get lit and laid! I’m buying hookers, booze, and coke.I just made a half a million dollars betting on my granddaughter. We’re all getting shit-faced tonight!”
“There’s my winner!”
“The team did all the work, Mom!” I complain as my mom wraps me in a big hug.
“Crazy!”
“The most insane thing I’ve ever seen!” my cousins chatter excitedly.
“Yeah, that’s right!” Uncle Bic drunkenly whoops at the passing Orcas fans. “We owned you out there!” He whips his jersey around his head, bare belly out.
“Didn’t she do a good job, Nate?” My mom beams at my dad.
“That was…” He pats my shoulder. “Well, you guys got a few lucky shots off. You should have lost.”
“But we didn’t.”
“Don’t make a habit of letting Fletcher bounce pucks off people’s heads,” Dad warns. “The NHL is not going to like it if he makes a habit of it. Concussion protocols, you know.”
I nod.
“Good news though,” Dad adds. “With the team on the upswing, it will be easier for them to hire a real coach.”
