“This team needs a coach.” Dana takes a step toward me.
“I’m sure I could find one. There has to be someone out there—a man who wants to prove his mettle.” My neck is craning all the way back.
Dana peers down at me. Imperious. A queen. “You’ll do.” She holds out a set of keys. “I’ve already had IT switch your email over.”
The keys are heavy in my hand. “What about my PR duties?”
“This is in addition to your normal job. I’m not running a charity. I didn’t become a billionaire by coddling people. And don’t,” she warns, “ask me for a pay raise.”
4
FLETCHER
“Agirl? We have to get coached by agirl?”
“Not just any girl—the PR girl?” Eddie is pacing around the empty house.
The only piece of furniture in the living room is an oversized couch where Zayne Murphy—hockey legend, five-time Stanley Cup champ, two-time Olympic gold medalist, once and future captain of USA Hockey, and my all-time hero—is currently trying to cross off his one and only daily to-do list item of drowning himself in whiskey.
On the TV, the sports-news talking heads are squawking about the girl coach and how this is the beginning of the end for not just the Rhode Island Hockey Club but the NHL in general.
“I mean, might be nice to see some titties other than yours,” Bramms jokes to Ziggy.
“It’s a gimmick,” I say flatly.
“Does that mean we get free stuff?” Jovi asks me as he chows down on a sandwich made from the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers Zayne catered last week.
“Is there more turkey left?” Ziggy sighs. “I should eat some protein in these trying times.”
“Yeah, Zayne ordered enough for two hundred people, like we were going to have a big happy-hockey-family Christmas.” Eddie snorts. “The Rhode Islanders are not that kind of a team.”
“At least he paid.” I jump to Zayne’s defense.
“He better.” Carlsson glowers.
We aren’t getting paid a lot of money, because Zayne Murphy is getting paid over half of the Rhode Islanders’ salary cap.
“All that money, and he hasn’t played a game sober since Dana Holbrook squirted this team out into the world.” Carlsson shakes his head.
“She should have strangled us in the cradle,” Jonesy states.
“What do you care? At least you’re getting paid,” Bramms grumbles.
“Two mill a year,” Jonesy brags.
“Not as much as—”
I glare at Eddie before he can say what we’re all thinking.
Not that Zayne noticed. Murphy’s Law scratches his belly, belches, and his head lolls to the side.
He lifts up his glass. “’S good you guys are here. House’s empty otherwise. ’S empty.”
He did let us crash in his enormous mansion in the nice part of Maplewood Falls, so at least I don’t have to spend my meager paycheck on rent since Hudson didn’t deign to give me a per diem for my sacrifice.
“You want to talk about people getting more than their fair share?” Ziggy mutters and nods.
Cookie is huddled under a blanket in front of the TV. He was destined to be the next Zayne Murphy. A generational talent. They gave him a huge contract with a big signing bonus right after his eighteenth birthday. He made his NHL debut as the most hyped rookie in the league. He then scored an own goal at minute 1:37 of the first period of his first-ever NHL game, and coach Joe DeMarcus screamed at him so badly he madeCookie cry on national television. Cookie’s been so traumatized he hasn’t played in a game since.
