“It’s not your business.”
“You’re trying to sleep with the owner of my team and the coach of my team, so sounds like I do have a stake in where you wet your weenie.”
“Fuck you, I am not.” I’m about to fight this motherfucker.
“Then what the hell are you doing, doodle? It’s not like you can hot-wire a car,” he snickers.
“Of course I can hot-wire a car,” I scoff.
He crawls right over me, his knee digging into my thigh, and sits in the passenger seat. “All right, Yankee, let’s see it.”
Dana’s coming out any minute—she never hangs around here long. If I was smart, I’d ditch the car and start running. But I can’t. Now it’s a matter of manhood.
My tongue flicks out. I lick my lower lip. “Fuck you, trailer trash,” I mutter.
Ren just howls in laughter.
My multi-tool has pliers and a screwdriver on it. Modern cars have immobilizers on them that make them unstealable—unless you have a cousin who knows computers.
I make lots of noise as I duck down under the steering wheel and text Lawrence:
Fletcher:Need in this car.
Lawrence:That Dana’s?
Fletcher:Yes, hurry up.
Lawrence:Turn your phone’s Bluetooth on.
Ren snorts somewhere above me.
I hold my breath.
My phone chimes. Then the car roars to life.
“Well damn, son, you got a magic wand up your dick.” Ren, for once, looks impressed with me. “Too bad you can’t play hockey as good as you can steal a car.”
“We should probably—” My hands are on the door handle.
“Goddamn pussy ass—”
I floor it. The car roars and the tires screech as we peel out of the parking lot.
“Whoo!” Ren whoops, opening the moonroof and sticking his head out like a gunner as the German engine roars down the street.
The goalie slaps the back of my head. “I didn’t think you had the balls, fucking Yankee pussy-ass bitch.”
I do donuts in the parking lot as Ren cranks the radio to rap music. I almost cream a Santa Claus–shaped trash can as the car’s speakers crackle and Dana Holbrook’s voice comes on: “Boys, bring my car back.”
Dana doesn’t seemto realize I left the data scraper in the small USB port of her car. I watch the black Mercedes peel out of the parking lot.
I’m too antsy to go back to Zayne Murphy’s house, though I should. Maybe clean up all the empty protein shake bottles for the party he’s supposed to be hosting. Between Ellie and the fact that I might be about to clear my debt after years of it hanging over my head, I don’t want to go back to Zayne’s house with all the rookies and the other hockey players and wait and stew. I’m wired. It’s like my skin’s too tight.
I make sure the liquor’s still locked up tight at Zayne’s before I bail. I want to win tomorrow, and he needs to be sober.
I walk through town, toward Main Street, hands deep in the pockets of my coat, boots crunching on salt-scattered sidewalks. The streets are strung with lights, the Christmas market glowing like a postcard. Ellie loves this time of year. I know—I heard her yap about it enough when she tried to make a PR video for social media.
I weave through the crowds. Couples press close, fingers laced. Kids squeal over caramel apples and wooden toys. A guy my age awkwardly buys a snow globe from a stall—must be for a girl he’s trying to impress. Everyone’s trying to hold on to something tonight.
