“Goddamn little snitch.” Granny Murray waves the stick she’s carrying threateningly at Cookie. “They don’t pay me enough to keep me from gambling my social security check. I earned that check.”
“Are you all decent?” Ellie pokes her head in.
I can’t keep my eyes off of her as she runs through the plays.
Everyone’s locked in. Zayne hasn’t had a drink in days—I know because I slept on a mattress at the foot of his bed and made sure of it—and he looks like he’s twenty-five again, about to dominate the hockey world. I can taste the win.
“And remember”—Ellie claps her hands—“anyone who scores or gets an assist chooses a prize out of the prize bag.”
Jovi raises his hand.
“Yes, Jovi, everyone will get a sticker for participating.”
“No, um, that’s not what I was going to ask. Can I ask my question?”
“Yes.”
“Are we getting pizza Lunchables for snack?”
“Yes!” Ellie claps her hands.
“Fuck yeah!” Bramms and Carlsson whoop.
“Pizza Lunchable.” I manage to pick out the words from the Scandinavian licorice mouth of the Finn.
“It’s the reason we saved your asses in World War II.”
He scowls at me and slams his helmet on his head.
“You better—”
“Don’t worry, Elvis.” I smirk at Ren. “You might wanna bring a book because no pucks are coming to your net tonight.”
I catch Ellie as she trots into the equipment room. She’s wearing a skirt.
I slide my gloved hand under it. “I wish I’d fucked you last night,” I whisper in her ear, making her shiver.
She’s not wearing a pink suit. This one is white with a plunging neckline. The skirt’s flouncy and short. She twists away. I grab her arm, pulling the fabric to revealing a crescent of red lace.
She yelps when I grab the back of her neck.
“What are you wearing?”
“Just in case you need some extra motivation.” She blinks up at me and fusses with her neckline.
My nostrils flare. I can practically taste her. “I don’t need the promise of your pussy to win.” I slap my helmet on. “I’m going to do that anyway.”
My team is vibrating by the time we line up in the tunnel. Helmets on. Visors down. The roar of the crowd echoes down the tunnel.
Zayne’s the captain. He stands at the end of the line, slapping each of the players on the thigh with his stick as they pass.
I take my spot as alternate captain, second to last in the lineup.
“You ever figure out your song choice, Fletch?” he grins, the music still pounding through our chests.
“Fuck yeah, I’ve been knowing what I’m playing,” I holler to him as we head down the tunnel. I feel like I’m about to jump out of a C-130 airplane into the pitch-dark.
We’re electric. The crowd is deafening. And then I hear it.
