“Your dad’s not the one with the ticking biological clock and overbearing grandbaby-hungry mother.”
“I can’t think about relationships. My life is already screwed up enough.” I wipe my eyes and fan my face. “I need to keep it together—we have a big game tonight. It’s against the Montreal Vortex. They’re a good team. Not as good as the Direwolves, but good.”
“I think the Rhode Islanders can take them.”
I’m not so sure. The team seems off at practice. I made everyone clear out of the party early, but maybe I shouldn’t have thrown it at all, I worry. It’s just that Zayne had scheduled it before we were contenders, and it seemed like punishment to cancel it.
It seems like maybe it wasn’t just the party, though. Something shifted in the team’s cohesiveness.
They’re a step behind on the drills. Fletcher snaps at everyone. Zayne seems out of it. Eddie straight up didn’t even show up. Cookie misses the net on a drill, which triggers a panic attack, and I was only able to calm him down enough for Zayne to bundle him off home.
Fletcher doesn’t try to sneak a kiss or anything after practice—just stomps to the locker room and throws on his clothes.He doesn’t even look like he showered when he heads past me, barely acknowledging me.
Probably going to see Dana.
Harlowe’s wrong. Why wouldn’t Fletcher want to be with the team’s owner instead of the temporary coach who can’t manage to keep any sort of winning streak going?
I notice that his eyes do drift to the puck bunny who managed to sneak past the lackluster stadium security. I feel sick. None of those girls has a hockey-player body.
“Back, back!” Granny Murray rushes out with a broom. “Fifty bucks to touch our star centerman! No free lookie-loos!”
I’m not confident about the game. It’s probably better that Fletcher doesn’t get handsy in my office. I need to focus on how we’re going to beat the Montreal Vortex.
Practice was horrible. “It’s because they’re all hungover,” I lie to myself as I suck down my lukewarm coffee in my office. “Nothing’s wrong with the team.”
I have a pounding headache myself, after all, that has nothing to do with my heartbreak over Fletcher.
Heartbreak? Who’s heartbroken? I’m young—I can have a hookup without getting emotionally attached.
I shake my head. My mom has a hangover cure recipe. I need to go shopping. I’ll make a list of the ingredients.
Someone raps on the door.
“Fletcher?” I flinch as my dad opens the door.
He seems a little taken aback at my reaction. “Ellie? I, uh, well, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sure, Dad, yeah, have a seat.” I gesture to the seat that is right next to the trash can that has a freaking condom in it. Ugh, why did they fire the janitorial staff? Frick. I try very hard not to look at the trash can, not to draw any sort of attention to it, as I slowly sneak my foot out from under the desk, all while I lock eye contact with my father.
“I…” he stammers. “Well, I’ve been asking around, and I think we found someone who wants to take over the coaching job here. With the way the team performed the last couple of games, seems like there’s some renewed interest.”
“Great, so Ellie pulls the team from the brink of disaster, and some idiot with a small penis and a bald head gets to come in and steal all her credit?” Granny Murray says as she slams the door open.
My dad cringes.
“I knew you were up to no good, Nathan!” Granny Murray hollers at him. “I knew as soon as I saw you walk in the building—that’s a shiftless male if I ever saw one.”
“I’m trying to look out for her!” my dad cries. “Ellie, people think you’re sleeping with the players. You should see all the horrible things people are writing about you online. Your mom’s so upset she cries every night.”
“Lies!” Granny Murray thunders. “Trina is fighting the good fight online—this yellow-bellied turncoat is the one weeping in his pillow! Fucking pussy, man the hell up!”
“Mom’s arguing with people in the comments?” I groan. My headache is getting worse.
My dad grabs my hand. “This is why I didn’t want this for you, Ellie!”
“You tell whatever coach you scraped up that Ellie is going down with the ship!” Granny Murray rails.
“I don’t know, Gran. Maybe I should leave.” It’s going to be awkward with Fletcher. It already is awkward. And now the team is broken—I’m not sure why. Maybe they’re getting horrible comments online too. They had tampons thrown at them in Seattle, after all. “Maybe it can’t hurt to see what a real coach could do.”
