She grabs my wrist. I can barely feel her fingers through the padded wrist guard and the heavy fabric of the jersey, but they’re there.
I’m an alternate captain on an NHL team. Exhilaration, spurred on by the sugar and caffeine and carbs, surges through me as I step out onto the ice with Zayne and the Finn and the two D-men.
Ren strides by in the bulky goalie gear. He bangs his stick on my ass as he passes. “Keep those fuckers away from my net, Yankee Doodle, or I’m gutting you like a hog.”
The chocolate high wears off as the crowd cheers while we do our warm-ups. The ref’s waiting with Ryder O’Connell, captain of the Direwolves. Zayne is barely with it. Probably can’t even write his own name. The Finn narrows his eyes at me. I give a helpless shrug as his icy blue eyes flick to the ref and Ryder waiting.
I skate over. Ryder nods, clearing his throat.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “Our captain’s trying to get in the zone.”
Zayne looks like he’s falling asleep on his stick.
Ryder gives me an earnest smile, then his face goes serious. “I think it’s admirable that you all have a female coach. I know a lot of girls are really excited to see history being made tonight.” He really is a fucking Boy Scout. “Now,” he adds, “I told my team that I don’t want to hear any nasty comments about Coach Clarke. We don’t speak that way about women on my team. And you tell me if you hear anything from any of my players, and I’ll deal with them.” He’s nice, but there’s steel in his voice.
“Sure, man—I mean…” I try to match his professionalism. “Yessir, I appreciate it.”
“And I hear you’re the league’s newest alternate captain. Congratulations.” He takes off his glove, shakes my hand and everything.
Then he proceeds to beat the ever-loving shit out of us.
12
FLETCHER
“We’re only down by three goals,” Ellie says brightly as we file into the locker room after the end of a brutal first period.
Ren grabs me by the collar of my jersey and shoves me against the wall, holding up his stick to my neck. “I thought I told you to keep them pucks away from my goddamn net.” Then he shoves me away, making me stumble on my skates.
“You made some amazing saves,” Ellie gushes to him.
“Be nice if someone could score,” Ren snarls in my direction.
Granny Murray buzzes around, replacing skate blades as we suck down water and protein bars.
I’m gassed. I didn’t know it was possible to sweat that much.
Ellie’s at the whiteboard. Other coaches usually have footage playing and are scribbling nonsense on the whiteboard as they ineffectively describe plays and scream at the players.
“Offense,” Ellie says as she draws perfect little dashed lines to show how she wants us to pinch the D and create more offensive opportunities.
I peer at the whiteboard. “Is that a butterfly?”
“Let’s raise our hands,” Ellie says like it’s an automatic script that she can’t help.
Jovi raises his hand. “Is that a butterfly?”
“Oh,” Ellie says brightly, “it does look like a butterfly. Good job, Jovi! But-ter-fly,” she sounds out the word.
He beams.
What the fuck, Bramms mouths next to me.
“Ooh.” Ellie looks at the clock. “It’s time to play!” She claps her hands. “Line up, single file, hands to yourselves.”
This chick is insane.
I cut forward in line.
